


Love that would look and sound like a movie

by heavenisalibrary



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, River as a Screenwriter the Doctor as a Director AU, may god have mercy on my soul
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-21
Updated: 2015-04-20
Packaged: 2018-03-14 00:51:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 31,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3402377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heavenisalibrary/pseuds/heavenisalibrary
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’d told his agent he wanted the job. He’d talked to the producer. And in all of the negotiations, any time somebody took great care in pointing out that the writer had taken great pains to be sure they were allowed on set and could wield about as much influence as any screenwriter could hope to wield, he’d simply thought ‘well, the man is brilliant — we’ll get along swimmingly.’</p><p>Of course, it wasn’t a man. M. A. Pond wasn't even a real person, just a pen name — it was a woman named River Song, and they didn’t get along in the least.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I saw the following post on tumblr and immediately this happened. Hopefully I'll be good about updating, but you never know with me.
> 
> "Person A is a movie director. Person B is a screenwriter with an eye twitch, because A keeps trying to make ridiculous changes."
> 
> May or may not actually include an eye twitch. I only just barely restrained myself from calling the Doctor "the Director", before defaulting to John. Sad.

She’s easily on his list of ‘top five worst people ever’. He doesn’t know what he was thinking, agreeing to direct a project without bothering to ask questions — it was just, he’d read the script, and it was phenomenal. He wasn’t prone to displays of emotion — alright fine he was, but just a bit — but it had made him bawl, it had made him get up and dance around the room, it had made him want to take out a needle and inject the words into his own bloodstream. It was that good. He’d been shocked to see it was written by a name he didn’t recognize, too. He’d googled the writer — M. A. Pond — and found nothing to his name but some script editing and a few consulting producer credits on random television shows. So he’d worked before, but this was really his pilot script. John was a bit overwhelmed by that thought, and that was exactly what had gotten him into this mess. 

He’d told his agent he wanted the job. He’d talked to the producer. And in all of the negotiations, any time somebody took great care in pointing out that the writer had taken great pains to be sure they were allowed on set and could wield about as much influence as any screenwriter could hope to wield, he’d simply thought ‘well, the man is brilliant — we’ll get along swimmingly.’ 

Of course, it wasn’t a man. M.A. Pond wasn’t even a real person, just a pen name — it was a woman named River Song, and they didn’t get along in the least. She was stubborn and sharp-tongued and totally without patience. She had no problems interrupting him in the middle of sentence if she disagreed, and what made it infinitely worse, was that even though he cringed at the very sound of her voice, everyone around him was totally smitten with her. Even his agent, Amy, practically swallowed her own tongue in her eagerness to respond to anything River said to her. Even Amy’s husband, Rory, who wasn’t particularly given to bouts of enthusiasm was totally gaga over her. John couldn’t get any work done — any time he made a suggestion, River would bite her lower lip, tilt her head to the side, roll her eyes to the sky, and for a moment pretend to actually consider what he was saying before sighing and uttering a patronizing, “sweetie…” and dismantling whatever he’d said with a skillfulness he’d never really seen before.

He’d try to argue, but everybody always agreed with her. It was totally maddening.

He thought her script was brilliant, of course. A truly phenomenal love story about a pair of time travelers who simply couldn’t meet in the right order, he knew it was going to be a blockbuster. He knew she was going to become very wealthy and successful, as would he, but the difference was during press junkets he’d probably come off as a crabby, raving lunatic while she’d be sitting beside him, looking like an angel, sighing, “sweetie…”

 He wasn’t her sweetie. He wasn’t her friend at all — he was her director, and she spoke to him like he was a poorly behaved dog. Worse — a poorly behaved dog that was too stupid to be expected not to piss on the carpet. She’d just given him the second final draft, and everybody had oohed and ahhed over it during the notes call, telling her that they didn’t understand why she’d had to rewrite it in the first place, and he could practically see her damn smug face smirking at him down the phone line as she’d said, leaving no mystery as to whom she was referring, some people liked to make other people jump through hoops just to prove they can, isn’t that right, sweetie?

 He was livid. He absolutely abhorred her, and to think, he’d thought she was going to be a nice, elderly fellow with a few small dogs and perhaps a sweater vest and maybe even a pipe. Someone distinguished and reserved and amenable to all of his notes — he was only trying to help! — and willing to have a civilized conversation about the script over a nice dinner. Honestly! She was a bloody nightmare. The script, sure. The script was a dream. But she was a nightmare.

 He didn’t even remember getting in his car when he came-to from his rage-induced stupor, jolted to attention by the high-pitched beep alerting him that he’d just locked it. He looked around, slightly baffled, before he caught sight of the numbers on the front door. He’d come to her house. He’d only ever glanced at the address — of course, he had an eidetic memory — he didn’t suppose she had an eidetic memory, oh how he wanted to rub that in her so-called brilliant face — and he didn’t remember deciding to come. He shifted his weight back and forth, reaching up to tug on his bow tie.

 Well, he was here.

 As he marched up to the doorway, he took stock of the property. It was a small house, which irritated him, because he was sure based on the payment she’d gotten even for the first draft of the script would’ve caused her to buy something totally garrish, and — and — and he was so incredibly thrown out of sorts by her that he was irritated by the small but tasteful house with well-maintained flowers resting on either side of the walk way. Even in the dark — he hoped it wasn’t too late — or, no, scratch that, he hoped it was — he could tell the flowers were vibrant and blooming.

 When he reached the door, he lifted his hand to knock on it, setting his jaw, but before he could knock even once, it swung open, and River Song stood on the doorway with her hand on her hip as she cocked it to one side, draping the other arm up the doorframe in an irritatingly dramatic pose.

 “Hello, sweetie,” she said.

 He scowled. “I’m not your sweetie,” he said. “You made me look like an idiot today.”

 “I make you look like an idiot every day,” River said, stepping to the side and ushering him in.

 That irritated him, too — for how angry she made him, she also had this horrible, frustrating influence over him. She gestured vaguely into her house, and suddenly he was strolling inside, without ever having given himself permission to do so. Still, he didn’t have to be happy about it. He stomped inside and flopped down on the first chair he saw, an overstuffed armchair in a print perhaps more suited to a nursing home, and crossed his arms and his legs, and continued to scowl.

 “You don’t,” he said. And then, “you didn’t need to say that. Scripts need rewrites, that’s how it works.”

 “You don’t think I rewrote it a million times before I let my agent so much as touch it?”

 “Certainly not, based on —”

 “Based on what, John?” River snapped, closing the door behind her and sitting down in the armchair across from him. Her anger cooled quickly, and she exhaled leaning back in her chair and examining her fingernails closely. “I’d say it wasn’t a bad draft at all, based on the number of digits I was paid for it.”

 He wagged his finger at her. “You only get it all when we agree it’s complete.”

 She snorted. “Right, and it’s not like I’ll even have to work again for the next ten years off of the first cut alone. Don’t be ridiculous.”

 “I’m not —”

 “Sorry, sweetie,” River said, “I forgot you can’t help it.”

 He sat back in his chair, glaring at her. “You’re insufferable. At least admit that the scene in act two, the one where she’s too young and he doesn’t realize ‘til it’s too late — at least admit that scene is a million times better with my edits.”

 River shifts in her seat, rolling her eyes and looking away from him, and he laughs brightly in triumph.

 “I knew it! Admit it!”

 “Never,” she said.

 “Come on, you got to mortify me in front of everybody today, including Amy and Rory, who already think the sun shines out of your arse — throw me a bone!”

 “Throw you a bone?” River said. “What a flattering offer, honey, but I’m afraid I’ll have to pass. I like my men with a bit more substance.”

 “You — what are you — no, not a — not a bone, you’re horrible!”

“No worse than you,” River said. She got up with a huff, and again without thinking, John hopped up and followed her through the dining room into the kitchen, tailing her closely as she set about making tea.

 “As long as I’m here, we may as well talk about the next draft —”

 “The next draft!” she shouted, exasperated. She clicked the electric kettle on and slammed a couple of mugs down on the counter before turning around to face him. “I’ve only just finished the last! You made me cut out twenty pages. I need time to recover!”

 “It’s not like I asked you for a pound of flesh!”

 “You may as well have,” River said, sighing and blowing her hair out of her face. “Do you know what it takes out of me to cut things down like that, especially for you?”

 He growled with frustration.

 “I know what I’m doing!”

 “So do I!”

 They stared at each other, gridlocked, until the tea boiled and the kettle popped, and then River huffed, turning away from him to pour them both a mug of tea, his with a healthy measure of sugar, hers with a bit of milk.

 He accepted his with a glare, walking away from her into the dining room and flopping down in one of the chair at the table, spilling hot tea all over his hand in the process. He licked it from his skin, catching River rolling her eyes at him as she sat down across from him.

 “The scene in the second act was better,” River said. “The final scene, however, is still all wrong.”

 “Now that we can agree on.”

 “It’s your fault,” River said, sipping her tea. “If you’d just let leave it how I wanted it in the first place —”

 “It wasn’t any good in the first place!”

 “That’s not true!”

 “You’re so full of yourself —”

 “ _Me_?” River shouted, slamming her tea on the table. “ _I’m_ so full of myself?”

“That’s what I said, didn’t I?”

This time, River growled with frustration, standing up and walking out of the dining room and to the door. She threw it open and gestured outside. John dug his heels in, looking at her serenely and leaning back in his chair. He sipped his tea calmly, raising a brow at her. Sighing, River marched back across the room and snatched the tea cup out of his hands. Instinctively, he lurched to stand and followed her to her door as she threw the tea cup outside — he yelped with surprise, covering the sound of the tea cup shattering against her walkway.

“Get out!”

“You’re completely mad,” John said. “I wish I’d never taken this job.”

“I wish you’d never taken this job too,” River hissed.

They stood like that for a moment longer: River, pressed against the door, arm outstretched, John a hair’s breadth from her. He couldn’t properly comprehend how it could be so impossible to simply have a conversation with somebody — he felt like his blood was boiling in his veins, and he couldn’t quite catch his breath. River’s face was flushed, her chest was heaving — not that he looked — well, not that he looked much — and he had the fleeting thought that she looked shockingly gorgeous in the moment before he stormed away.

River slammed the door behind him.

  



	2. Chapter 2

"Honestly, Amelia, if this goes on this movie is never going to be made! I insist on being brought in on the early talks because —"

"Because you're a control freak —"

" _Because_ I am an expert in my field as well as a few others, and, really, if we're trusting anybody it should be  _me_. My resume's as tall as you are, and that's saying something, you big ginge."

Amy rolled her eyes, leaning back in her chair and looking at him carefully. They'd arrived early for the next notes call — which wouldn't be a call, but an in person meeting, despite John's protests — and Rory was out getting them tea. Amy had pleaded with John to stop antagonizing River, but of course he wouldn't admit that he was antagonizing her at all;  _she_ was antagonizing  _him_.

"Your resume may be impressive," Amy said, "which I only admit because I'm your agent, so if you've got any good jobs at all that's up to  _me_ , but River Song's got a golden pen. If you could just swallow your pride —"

John huffed.

"— and work  _with_ her, she could be your ticket to an Oscar or twelve."

" _Me_ work with  _her_? Why aren't you on  _her_ to work with  _me_!?"

"I don't represent her," Amy said as Rory reentered the room, carefully balancing four styrofoam cups of tea. "And  _she's_ not some kind of petulant child.  _She's_ lovely. You've been a nightmare."

Amy grabbed the tea from Rory's hands, helping him set it down on the table, and slid John's down to him. She gave Rory's hand a brief squeeze of thanks as he settled into the chair next to her, and John smiled a bit into the styrofoam cup. Amy drove him up a wall — and she was  _certainly_ wrong now — but she was his very best friend, in addition to being his agent. Amy and Rory had grown up together, although it had taken the Doctor faking sick on a business trip to Venice for which they'd purchased nonrefundable tickets and insisting that Rory take his and put it to good use, since no work was going to get done, for them to realize they'd been in love with one another their entire lives. He envied them that, they're connection — envied it a lot more once he sipped his own cup of tea. Rory  _never_ remembered how he took his tea, but of course he always got Amy's right.

"Something wrong?" Rory asked. John realized he must've been frowning into his cup.

"There's milk," John said.

"You like milk," Rory said.

"I  _hate_ milk."

"Don't be so ungrateful," Amy said, slapping John's arm and sloshing his tea all over his hand. "Rory was kind enough to get you tea. Say thank you and stuff it."

"Thank you," John grumbled, setting the tea down.

" _Such_ a diva," Amy huffed, slapping John's arm again.

" _Al_ right," John said, "I'm sorry, you're right. Thank you for the tea, Rory, even though we've known one another a decade, possibly more, and you never remember that I hate milk in my tea — even bloody River Song knows how I take my tea —"

"Sorry,  _what_?" Amy said, suddenly alert. John cringed.

"She just — made me a cup of tea when I was over at hers the other day and remembered just how I take it, it's not a —"

" _John_!" Amy shouted, sounding especially Scottish and slapping his arm again.

"Would you  _stop_?"

"Why were you at her  _house_?"

"I was just so cross after the phone call —"

"You went to River's  _house_  at nine o'clock at night to  _pick a fight_?"

"No, I —"

"And you had  _tea_?"

"Well, I don't know! We didn't mean to have tea, I'm sure! I just ended up at her house and we started arguing and then I was following her into the kitchen and, yeah, fine, she made us some tea —"

Amy collapsed over the table, face in hands. "Oh, you're such a _moron_."

"Rory, can you control your wife?"

"Have you  _met_ my wife?" Rory said. "Anyway, I happen to agree with her."

"Not even touching on how much legal trouble you could get in if River decided to complain about you stalking and harassing her —"

"I wasn't —"

"You  _did_ ," Amy said, "not even  _touching_ on that, you spent the evening with River Song  _having tea_ and she remembered exactly how you take it and you're sitting here telling me you hate her."

"I never said I hated her," John said, "merely that we don't get along. And we were  _yelling_ while making the tea, Amy, it's not like we were having a lovely chat, and before I could even  _finish_ my tea she through it out the door and kicked me out."

"I don't blame her," Amy said, "she was probably just trying to be nice and you acted like an arsehole so she threw you out."

"That's not what happened."

"Fine," Amy said, "say I believe that you were fighting the entire time you were at her house. Say without even thinking about it she invited you in and you accepted and without even acknowledging what was happening, she made you a cup of tea..."

"That  _is_ what happened."

"Fine. Then you're  _both_ idiots."

John sighed, flopping back in his chair and crossing his arms over his chest like a disgruntled teenager, which, honestly, was how Amy and Rory often made him feel: like he was their child. He suddenly felt overwhelmed by how frustrating the next few hours were going to be — Amy and Rory on one side, glowering at him and reprimanding him for not behaving how they'd like, and River Song on the other, making him look like an idiot with a heretofore _unseen_  finesse while everyone expounded upon how wonderful she was. John stood up.

"I'm going for a walk," John said.

"Fine," Amy said. "Still an  _idiot_."

"Shut up, Pond."

"Mind grabbing a tea for River on your way back? I brought her one but it's gone cold and she just texted me saying she's running late."

John sighed but didn't respond, too annoyed that Rory not only thought to brought River a tea to begin with, but annoyed that Rory and River _texted_. She'd been so effective at worming her way into his life. He knew Amy better than he knew just about anybody else, and he knew when she was besotted with somebody professionally, when she was schmoozing, and when she was actually, properly fond of somebody — River definitely fell in the latter camp, which was profoundly irritating to him, not just because he didn't  _like_ River, but because Amy held on to people she liked with a frightening tenacity. If Amy liked River, River was going to be in his life, possibly even after this movie was over, and the thought made his skin crawl. He stomped out of the room and down the hallway, pacing the corridors for a few moments before he sighed and made his way to crafty. He'd at least bring the tea as a peace offering to Amy.

He was filling a styrofoam cup with hot water when he heard her voice behind him, like nails on a chalk board, or at least something similar — at any rate, it made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.

"Hello, sweetie."

"River," he said stiffly, without turning around.

He had to turn toward, her, though to get to the small catty-corner stand that held the tea, milk, and sugar, though, and she stood beside him. That irritated him, too; she always stood far too close. Every time he moved, he brushed up against her, and when he looked up to glare at her, he started a bit at how near she was. It made him so  _nervous_. Even his palms sweated. He  _hated_ that she did that to him.

"Ready for another grueling notes call?"

"Not in the least," John said. "Surprised you're so chipper."

River shrugged. "I figure we've got our cage match over with for the week, so we probably won't be the problem today."

John snorted. "I suppose not. Now we've just got to worry about the studio mucking everything up."

River nodded, watching John pour the milk. "I'm not even sure they've read the script."

"I'm sure they haven't," John said. "I swear I heard Glen saying something about adding explosions last time I was near his office."

"Well, what's a good love story without a few explosions?" River said. John looked up, startled, but she just winked.

He smiled, but only a little. "Oh, I don't know — conventional?"

"You don't strike me as one who likes things to be conventional," River said.

He tossed the tea bag out and looked up it, out of things to do to avoid her. She was looking at him carefully, and not for the first time, he remembered why he never really liked dealing with writers, especially good ones — he was a private person who, for all of his excited or angry outbursts, played things close to the chest. He didn't like anybody to know anything about him that he didn't readily give, and he had enough tawdry quirks to hide what he was thinking or feeling to open up a tawdry quirk shop. Writers made a career out of picking people apart with clever words, and he'd never met anybody as clever as River Song. Realizing he'd been staring, John cleared his throat.

"No, but, well, explosions, River. That seems a bit excessive. What ever happened to chocolate and flowers? Now a girl needs to lose a limb to feel loved?"

River laughed, loud and bright — that was one thing, he had to admit, that he liked about her. He liked the way she laughed, as long as it wasn't at his expense; big and full and rich. 

"Oh, honey," River said, "there are explosions and then there are  _explosions,_ if you know what I mean."

She stared at him with a smirk on her lips and one brow raised; even in moments of reprieve, though, even in moments where they could make chit-chat over a mutual hatred of the misguided studios, something about her was so deeply unnerving and threatening to him that he felt a shiver climb his spine. He wished he could make Amy understand that his dislike of River wasn't so simple as merely not  _liking_ her, or not getting along — it was something bone-deep, a conviction he felt so strongly that something about her was dangerous to him. It didn't help that they could barely speak without setting one another off like firecrackers, of course, but something about her just drove him to  _react_. It was so unfamiliar to him, and so frustrating. 

Once again, he realized he was staring at her, and flushed a bit. She laughed again, this time more softly, and he tried to stammer out a response but instead he just jutted his hand out awkwardly and offered her the styrofoam cup.

"I made you tea," he said.

She took it, looking baffled. "Why?"

"Rory made me," John admitted, taking the chance to turn away from her and head back toward the conference room. She kept carefully in step.

"And here I thought it was an apology for wasting a perfectly good tea cup the other night."

" _I_ didn't waste a tea cup," John said, stopping at the door and looking at her, exasperated. " _You_ threw it into the street!"

She rolled her eyes. "Because of  _you_."

"I don't control your actions!" 

He turned the knob and threw the door open a little more forcefully than necessary, pressing himself back against it to hold it open for River as she walked through.

"You certainly  _cause_ them. If you hadn't —"

"If  _I_ hadn't?! You were being —"

" _Attacked_ in my  _home_ by my —"

" _Director_ who's just trying to  _help_ —"

"Couldn't you do it over the  _phone_? Or without shouting —"

"You're shouting now!"

"You're  _both_ shouting," Amy said, reaching out from her chair to grab the edge of John's tweed coat and tug him toward his chair. "Sit down and stop acting like children."

John sighed and turned away from River, flopping down into his chair. River sat herself down next to Rory, far enough from John, and took a sip of her tea. John watched her smile slightly out of the corner of his eye.

"Just how I like it," River said, only to Rory, but John could hear. "Thank you, dear."

 _He'd_ been the one to make her tea —  _she_ should thank  _him_. Not that he wanted her to. Not that he even wanted to talk to her anymore at  _all._ He felt flushed all over, like his skin itched, like was was  _longing_ for another row with her, but of course he'd have to keep himself at least moderately in check in front of the studio, or certainly they'd take sides, and no one ever took his when River's was an option. He sat back in his chair and cross his arms, tapping his foot impatiently on the floor and trying to drown out the sound of Rory and River chatting amicably — as though she hadn't just been  _shouting_ at John — as the studio executives filed in and exchanged pleasantries. It was only after the meeting had started and everybody was busy listening to the executives that Amy tugged on his sleeve and leaned over to whisper something in his ear.

"You know just how she takes her tea, too."

He shook her off. As if that  _meant_ anything other than the fact that he had to spend endless, infuriatingly long amounts of time with her. This film couldn't be wrapped soon enough.

 


	3. Chapter 3

The meeting with the studio went better than anybody expected. They were mostly happy with the draft, and none of the suggestions they made were terribly outlandish. When the producers broached the budget with them, they wouldn't make any commitments, but the loose figures they offered were far higher than anticipated, and all in all, they clearly had a great deal of faith in the film to do well. Everyone's mood following was high. River and Amy were practically giddy, talking to one another a mile a minute and giggling like old friends. Rory clapped John on the shoulder as they walked out of the building.

John and River even managed to exchange a few words without biting one another's head off, and things were so optimistic that John wasn't even thinking when he slung an arm over Rory's shoulder when they reached the parking lot and invited them over for a celebratory dinner. Amy and Rory, of course, came over to his place all the time. He'd simply forgotten River was there. She'd immediately balked, but Amy had grabbed onto her hand and refused to let go until she agreed to come to dinner. Certainly John couldn't retract the invitation at that point — it would've been rude, even for him.

So that's how he found himself setting the table for four people and stringing together a stream of profanities even he was startled by under his breath as he thought about spending the entire evening with River, and it wasn't even for work! It was  _recreational_ , which was far worse, because not only did it mean he had to at least  _try_ and be polite, but it meant it was only going to encourage Amy to see River as a friend, rather than just a colleague. A  _temporary_ colleague. He knew better than anybody that escaping Amy Pond once she decided she was going to take care of you was all but impossible. Sighing, he turned to check the roast in the oven — the rub was his own devising, although he'd long since learned not to tell Amy and Rory that, because they'd both refuse to eat it, and he's certain he'd never hear the end of it from River.

He was so ill at ease with the idea of letting  _her_ into his house — he didn't let  _anybody_ into his house unless he trusted them implicitly — that he reached for the wine fifteen minutes before anybody was due to arrive, and poured himself a hefty glass, cringing at every sip but drinking it nonetheless. He was nearly done with his first glass when the doorbell rang. At least Amy and Rory would probably put him a bit at ease. Honestly, it wasn't even just him being petty; his house was everything to him. He'd lived in it since the foster system had first spat him out into a proper home, and after his foster-mother passed away, he'd painted it the bright blue he'd always imagined coloring the house he grew up in, and filled it with his life. When he opened the door and found River standing there, he felt like his heart would pound out of his chest it was beating so hard.

"And what sort of time do you call this?" he asked, showing her his watch.

She shrugged. "Would've been earlier, sweetie, but traffic was hell."

He glared at her. " _Why_? I'd have thought you'd want to spend as little time as possible with me."

River sighed, although she didn't make to enter his house until he stepped to the side and ushered her in. "Contrary to your apparent belief, sweetie, I don't  _try_ to make you miserable. I could tell the minute Amy invited me you'd be uncomfortable with this. I'm very good at reading people, you know, not just writing them."

John closed the door behind her, taking her coat as she offered it to him. After Amy and Rory pointed out to him the thoughtlessness with which they'd acquired one another's tea habits, John started noticing the thoughtlessness with which they did a lot of things for another — even while shouting, he'd opened the door to the conference room for her. They'd nearly come to blows at her house, and yet they'd gone through the motions of preparing tea and sitting down at the table, as though it was just a casual chat. Here, she was admitting she knew he didn't want her here, and yet he invited her in and took her coat. It was yet another aspect on his long list of things about her, and how he related to her, that made him uncomfortable — he thought it was perhaps like chemicals. He'd told Amy once that he and River were like oil and water: they just didn't mix. That wasn't strictly true, though — they were more like potassium and water, he was now realizing. Put them together, and everything ignited.

"What's your read on me, then?" he asked, because he couldn't help it. He turned away from her to hang up her coat on the rack, and when he turned back around, she'd already walked into his living room, and was circling around it, running her fingers gently over the spines of books and DVDs that stuffed his shelves. He scratched his cheek, feeling like he was going to crawl out of his skin with how uncomfortable it made him.

"You don't like me being here because you're a very private person," River said, looking at the spines of the books instead of him. "Based on how worn in the furniture is and the newspapers I can see stacked beneath the couch and the knick-knacks laying around — not to mention the dreadful state of your floors — and the decorative touches here and there that certainly aren't yours, I imagine you've lived here a very long time, perhaps most of your life. This house has your whole life inside of it. I'm sure you're very protective of it."

John tugged at his collar and stepped into the room fully, moving to stand beside her where she leaned against the book case. "Yes."

"You don't bring people here often," River continued, "it's an intimate thing for you."

"Yes," he said, "it's nothing — nothing  _personal_."

"Of course it's personal," River said with a laugh, "but why on earth should that offend me? I'm not exactly joining your fan club any time soon, either. We'll get through the evening to make Amy happy, and then you never have to bring me here again."

He smiled slightly. "That's very reasonable of you."

"I can be reasonable when it suits me," River said.

"I've never seen it happen before."

"Hasn't suited me before," River said. "Can't seem to resist driving you mad."

"Yes, well," John said, "you're very good at it."

"Oh, stop," she said, fluffing her hair and winking. "Now, come on — I wanted to be here early to keep you from going bald tugging your hair out — do you realize you do that, when you're frustrated? — but that doesn't mean we have to endure one another's company without a buffer  _sober_. Where's the wine?"

"Thank god," the Doctor said, "that's only the second reasonable thing I've heard you say the entire time I've known you."

 River followed him into the kitchen, where he refilled his own wine glass and poured her her own, filling it nearly to the brim as she laughed at him for spilling a bit on a counter. He pouted at her, licking it off of his hand and using his free hand to give her her own. She snorted before taking a sip.

"What a dreadful waste," she said.

"That's not fair," John said, "I tried to salvage as much as I could, but I must stop short of licking the counter top. I don't even like wine."

River raised a brow. She leaned back against the counter, and he leaned against it beside her, his shoulder brushing hers. 

"Why do you drink it then?"

"I don't like most alcohol," he said with a shrug, "don't like  _drinking_ it, that is. I don't like drinking, but I do like having drank. Especially when I have to spend ten minutes alone with my nemesis."

River laughed, turning to face him and sipping her wine. "I'm your nemesis, now?"

"Oh, I'd say so," John said. "Maybe you should write a screenplay about us. We can fight each other for control of the world. It'd probably be pretty exciting." 

"Lives lost, blood shed, spanning continents and years," River mused. 

"Like I said, pretty exciting."

"Epic," River said, maintaining eye contact as she sipped her wine. "I think it'd be hard to get the audience to identify with your character, however. You're basically an alien."

"I am not!"

John tugged at his collar as he watched her smirk, and then sipped at his own wine to keep himself from saying anything stupid. Now that they seemed to have reached some sort of temporary accord sealed by wine and based in their mutually agreed dislike of one another, he felt like they'd fallen into some sort of temporary truce. She still made his hair stand on end, but he could tolerate her, if only for the evening. He realized — for what seemed like the tenth time that day — that he'd been staring at her again, but he also realized for the first time that whenever he found himself staring at her, lost in thought, she was staring back. 

The oven timer went off, and John jumped, spilling the wine all over himself again, this time even over his shirt. Swearing under his breath — which made River laugh, which annoyed him greatly, though luckily the wine took a bit of the edge off — the Doctor stumbled past River to the sink beside her, fumbling with the washcloth and knocking the soap into the sink in his fluster. He was irritated enough with his own clumsiness, but to see River witness it and laughat him was too much.  _  
_

River interceded, though, setting down her wine class, and batting his hands away as she put soap and water onto the washcloth herself and shoved him out of the way. Clicking her tongue at him as he tried to take it from her hands, she tugged him so that he stood directly in front of her, and then in closer by the fabric of his shirt as she set to work wiping out the stain.

"You cook?" River asked, licking her lips as she worked at the stain. 

John cleared his throat.

"The oven timer," River said. "I figured you'd just... order take out."

John shook his head, shifting his weight back and forth on his feet, but River made a noise of irritation and pulled him closer, so that they were almost chest to chest with her hands working between them. He didn't know why, but he had to remind himself to breathe.

"I like to cook," he said, "it's like chemistry. Using the right ingredients to get the desired reaction. I like to experiment with things. Don't tell Amy I invented the recipe, though, or she won't eat it. Just pretend it's store bought, pre-prepped. You know, if anyone asks."

"I might not eat it now," River said, keeping hold on his shirt but turning around to grab a dry cloth from the counter, and pressed it against his shirt.

"It's good!" John said. "I'll have you know I learned to cook from some of the best culinary minds in France!"

"Sure you did," River said. 

"I  _did_ ," John said. "I don't spend even  _most_ of my time wasting away in Los Angeles, you know. I only keep a house here because this is where the work is."

"You and I have that in common then," River said, and John raised a brow. "I know, I'm shocked as well." 

"You don't like Los Angeles?"

River shrugged. She set the rag down behind her, and he was dimly aware that she was done cleaning his shirt, but he didn't move, and neither did she. "I don't  _not_ like it, it's just — there are so many places to see in the world. So many things to do. I've been lucky enough in my career to have a few dollars to burn here and there. I'd rather spend my time traveling."

"Me too," John said, "I can hardly stand to sit still for the duration of a film; before we've even wrapped, I usually have a ticket booked."

River smiled, nodding, and he smiled back. They were standing very close, and he had to look down at her to see her as she smiled softly up at him, her hands fallen to grip the counter beside her. The extra space left by her hands caused him to lean forward slightly with the release of pressure, and they were chest to chest. She inhaled sharply, but didn't pull away, and he found himself  _caught_ on her, suddenly; she jutted her chin upward to meet his gaze, and he gripped the counter on either side of her.

"Where will you go after this?" she murmured, and he felt her breath against his lips.

"Not decided yet," he said. "I'm thinking Dubai."

She hummed, and somehow her hand was back between them, flattening against his chest, running over the buttons of his shirt. He swallowed. The edge of his hand brushed against hers where it gripped on the edge of the counter, and he found himself shifting his hand over so they touched more, and more, and then his hand was over hers.

"I was considering Thimphu," River said.

"Ah," replied John, as their fingers laced together. Her free hand traced his chest with a bit more pressure, and her thumb stroked over the inside of his wrist. "Bhutan is lovely," he agreed, "I'd highly recommend it."

"It's definitely on my list," River said, "although I'd also like to make it back to Paris."

"Very romantic," John said. Their joined hands rubbed gently against River's side, and John found himself pressing her more firmly into the counter. Her fingers dug into his shoulder as she slid her hand up, and she inhaled sharply. He could hardly keep track of their conversation, and he had no idea what he was doing, or why, or why he felt like his heart was going to burst out of his chest, or why he was holding hands with  _River Song_ who he practically hated, or why he wanted to get so close to her that he didn't think he'd be near enough even if he crawled beneath her skin.

"I'm not big on romance," she said.

"No?"

"No," River said, "I'm more interested in...  _explosions_."

Her words sent a frisson through his body and he pushed her harder against the counter still, and she gasped again, her eyes fluttering as she looked up at him and their hips pressed together just right. She slid the hand on his shoulder around to rest over the back of his neck, her fingers scraping against his skin. He closed his eyes and sighed through his nose.

"I think I've had too much wine," John said.

"Mm," River said, "I think it's just us, sweetie. We're not a good mix."

"Not good at all," John said, "possibly the worst."

River nodded, her nose brushing against his. "Something about you makes me want to..." she trailed off, leaning up onto her tip toes to kiss each of his closed eyes, her fingers curling in his hair, and he felt like his entire body was about to combust. "Just... claw your eyes out."

"The feeling is mutual, I assure you," John said. "You're the most frustrating, arrogant person I've ever met."

"You have a face that begs to be slapped," River said, but the way she said it made him whimper.

"If I never saw you again it would be too soon," John said.

"Agreed." She dropped down from her toes in a way that made her rub up against his body deliciously, and it wasn't like he'd never  _realized_ she was attractive — she was impossible to ignore, really, with that face and those eyes and those curves, and even when he ignored her, he couldn't ignore the way she wrapped everyone who looked at her around her finger. It was just that he'd never really noticed that he was attracted  _to_ her before — and certainly he never noticed if she was attracted to _him_ — but maybe this was just the other side of the coin. It was as he'd thought earlier — potassium and water, only this was the  _other_ sort of explosion they hadn't yet  experienced.

Her nails scraped against his scalp, and she twisted her hips against him, and his mouth dropped open as he gasped.

"So," he said, licking his lips, lifting the hand that wasn't tangled with hers to press against her back and pull her closer, "can I..."

"Honey if you don't I really am going to slap you."

He nodded quickly, leaning into close the distance between them, but before their lips touched —

"Hell _oooo!"_ Amy shouted from the doorway, throwing the door loudly open.

River and John sprung apart so quickly that John fell backward and tripped over a chair, flying over it and landing on his back, which is where Amy and Rory found him when they made it to the kitchen: on his back, trying valiantly to act natural and also hide himself behind chairs and tables and semi-awkwardly placed hands because he could think of  _nothing_ more embarrassing than Amy and Rory noticing the problem his little _confrontation_ with River had caused him, and River watched it all where she stood by the sink, flushed red breathing hard for the moment before she snapped out of it and resumed mocking John along with Amy.

Of course, the night ended abruptly when River insulted John's rendition of creme brulee so relentlessly that he threw her coat out onto his lawn, followed by her shoes and her wine glass before she finally left, shouting a string of profanities at him that were so harsh, even Amy's mouth dropped open.

 


	4. Chapter 4

River called him the next day, but he didn't answer. The previous evening had ended much as expected — shouting, cursing, throwing her out of his house — but how it  _began_ was another story entirely, and he didn't know what to make of it. He was certain that she made him uncomfortable and flustered and always on the verge of shouting, and he'd taken the very extreme reactions he tended to have to her every word and move to mean that he couldn't stand the sight of her, but clearly, that wasn't true, in some sense, anyway. He didn't have an explanation for how he'd ended up nearly snogging River Song in his kitchen, or for why she'd let him. He had no idea what would've happened if Rory and Amy hadn't burst in — or rather, he did, and it scared the daylights out of him. 

So he looked at her name on the caller ID, held onto his phone for a moment, before tossing it across the room and rolling over in bed, pressing his face into his pillow and trying to think of anything else. Unfortunately, the moment he closed his eyes, the first things that popped into his head was her face, so close to his, lips parted, eyes wide, smirk at the corner of her lips — the feeling of her fingernails scraping just right over the back of his neck — the press of her hips against his and the way her thumb stroked the inside of his wrist — the intimacy of their linked hands and shared breath — 

 _No_ , he thought, that wouldn't do it all. 

He jumped out of bed and set to making himself a very elaborate and time consuming breakfast. He focused intently on his task, trying not to think of River, although trying  _not_ to think of something was always the easiest way to keep something on his mind forever, and so he'd nearly tugged all of his hair out by the time he'd finished cooking an hour and a half later. Sitting down at the table, he ate in silence for a few moments before he got bored and rifled through the stack of papers for something to read. Of course, the first thing he grabbed was her script. Sighing, he cracked it open, and set to reading through it once more, making notes in the margins. He'd only intended to give himself something to do while he ate, but even after he was finished he kept going through the script. He finished the entire thing, and without thinking jumped to his feet, ran into his room to retrieve the phone, and dialed River.

"I've just finished reading your script," John said before she even uttered a hello.

"For the first time?" River said, "I  _knew_ it."

"Oh, shut up," he said, pacing the length of his hallway. "I was thinking about the ending, and how they can't be together — it starts with her death and ends with his, and it's a nice bookend in theory, very heartbreaking, very heartfelt, very well-written —"

"Was that a compliment?"

"Statement of fact," he said, "not a compliment. But I don't think it's right. I don't think the ending is the point, that's why it doesn't feel right. They live their lives together out of order and out of sorts, always meeting at the wrong time, always getting the young version when they need the older and vise versa. But it's circular, isn't it?"

River hummed, and he wasn't sure if she was agreeing, or just thinking, so he continued.

"We always think of stories as being linear, as having a strict progression from one thing to another, but it's not, is it? Time's in flux, especially in this script. It's all happening and changing and kind of wibbly-wobbly —"

" _Wibbly-wobbly?_ "

" _Hush_ , Song, I'm being brilliant!"

"Oh  _please_ ," she said. He huffed, irritated, but she just laughed at him. "By all means, continue."

"Time for the characters, I mean, isn't linear. Their lives aren't linear. So why are you telling the story like it is?"

"I suppose I thought it would make more sense to the audience," River said after a beat, "if we followed one of them linearly. People like the familiar structure."

"But it's not right for this," John said, "it needs to be more out of sorts. I mean, it needs to make sense, they need to be able to follow it, of course, but I don't doubt you can accomplish that, but I think the key is to not bookend it. If they both have to die, have it be in the middle or slightly to one side. If it ends on a sort of random meeting or starts in media res then it's circular. It hasn't got a beginning. It hasn't got an end. It's just got a bunch of stuff fitting together at points to make a life." _  
_

River's quiet. He takes a deep breath and flops down onto the floor, leaning his head against the wall and closing his eyes. He can picture her chewing her lip thoughtfully.

"I think you're right."

"Sorry,  _what_?" John said.

"Don't make me repeat myself," River said.

John beamed. "I think it's going to be excellent."

"Compliments abound!"

"Not a compliment," John said, "statement of fact. Nothing to do with  _you_."

"Of course not," River said, "I'm only the writer." She paused, and then, "that's a very romantic spin on it, John."

"Eh?"

"It makes their relationships sort of... infinite, doesn't it?" River said. "If there's no end, no beginning, they could go on seeing one another forever. It's quite lovely, really."

"I thought you said there wasn't a romantic bone in your body," John said.

He could practically hear her smirk down the line. "There  _isn't_ a bone in  _my_ body, sweetie. You, however —"

John smashed his palm against his forehead. "Are we really going to talk about this?"

"I don't know," River says, sounding more subdued. "Are we?"

John didn't respond. He didn't  _want_ to talk about it. He wanted to pretend it had never happened, but then, he supposed part of him  _did_ want to talk about it, or else he would've just hung up the phone after they'd dealt with business as usual. He ran a hand through his hair and sighed.

"What would've happened?" River said. "If Amy and Rory hadn't come right then?"

John paused. "Nothing good."

"I agree," River said immediately, and John simultaneously felt relieved and offended. "We don't get along in the least. It was just... a fluke."

"Propinquity," John agreed, "nothing else."

"Of course," River said, "considering you all but physically threw me out of your house an hour later, it certainly shouldn't happen again."

"It was just pay back," John said. " _You_ threw  _me_ out first."

"At least  _I_ was invited," River said, " _you_ just showed up."

"You were rude about my dessert!"

"It was  _purple_!" River said. "And you were rude about my  _script_ first."

"This isn't a contest," John said, "but if it were, you would be the most unpleasant by a mile."

"Oh  _please_ ," River said, "ask anybody. Everyone thinks I'm delightful. You're pretentious and cantankerous on a good day."

"I am not."

"Are too."

"Am not!"

" _Are too!_ Ugh! You turn me into a twelve year old, do you know that?" 

"The feeling's mutual," John huffed. "We can't even get through a single conversation without fighting."

"Well," River said, "we're going to have to  _try_. We're getting closer and closer to having to be on an actual set, and while I'm perfectly happy to fight with you in private, it's going to make things impossible if we can barely speaking without being at one another's throats on set."

"I can't see anyway to fix that."

"Nor can I," River said, "unless you'd let me slap you before every day. Might take the edge off."

He knew she was kidding, but her words instantly jolted him back to the night before —  _you have a face that begs to be slapped_ — and he felt a shiver climb his spine as he thought about how close she'd been standing the previous evening, and his stammered, trying to find a response, but nothing at all came to mind except the startlingly clear memory of being so close to her, of touching her, of feeling her breath against his lips.

"I'll take that as a yes," River said. "I'll have to look into some wrist exercises to —"

" _River_ ," he said, but his voice came out far more hoarse than he'd intended, and she laughed, the sound warm and soft down the line.

"Don't be scared, sweetie," River said, "it won't be —"

"I'm not  _scared!"_

 _"_ Excited, then?"

"I — I —"

" _Ooh_ , I  _knew_ you looked a little too excited when I said it the other night."

"I'm not excited! I don't  _want_ to be slapped — are you  _mad_?"

"Mm, maybe a little," River said, "but you're kinky. I'd never have thought."

"I am  _not_."

"Liar."

"I am not!"

"Are too."

"Not this again," John said, "oh, wait, I've just remembered something."

"What's that?"

"We're on the phone," John said, "I can just hang up on you."

He drew the phone away from his face, and hung up the phone on her laughter. At least they'd agreed about the script — among  _other_ things, like what a colossal mistake they may have made if Amy and Rory hadn't come in — but he'd found her unbearable  _before_ her every other sentence brought to mind the previous night. He threw the phone down the hall, scrubbing a hand over his face and wondering how on earth he was going to fight with her when even that flustered him in a way he didn't think he'd ever been flustered before. And what was worse, he felt like there was an edge off of their arguments; a week ago he would've hung up on her, or she on him, five minutes into the call, but now, it had been almost  _enjoyable_ to fight with her. He let his head fall back and bang against the wall. This film  _really_ couldn't be wrapped soon enough.


	5. Chapter 5

It wasn't even two days later when he found a new draft of the script in his email, and he printed it out and settled in to read it with more enthusiasm than he'd ever admit to River. He was halfway through when there was a pounding on his door. At first he ignored it — this draft was _good_ , really good, it was good enough that he hardly had any notes and he would've even been willing to  _tell_ River it was good — but the pounding just got louder and more insistent until he finally tossed the script down and went to answer it. Amy waited for him, holding the script in her hand and immediately narrowing her eyes at him.

"What did I do now?!"

Amy pushed into past him into his house. "I got this draft in my email, and I thought 'wow, this is interesting, I didn't expect this for a week.'"

"For once she did her job," John said, flopping down on the couch as Amy stood across from him, arms crossed over her chest. He felt a bit like he was getting scolded by his mother, although he didn't have a clue about what.

"I'm going to ignore that," Amy said, "and instead focus on how you need to stop harassing River."

"Sorry,  _what_?"

"Don't play dumb, it doesn't suit you," Amy said, "I had lunch with River this morning and she told me she had a new draft ready to go. I was startled, you know, since she doesn't have to be finished for a couple of weeks yet, and she said that  _you_ motivated her. I can only assume it involved one or both of you destroying more tea cups and wine glasses and whatever else you deem fit to throw!"

"We did not! And why are you here yelling at  _me_?"

"I'm  _your_ agent. And anyway, I could just tell by her reaction that you'd been messing things up again — she looked so uncomfortable poor thing."

John barked out a laugh. "This is so like you, Pond. We happened to have a very civil conversation about her script. Maybe she was just excited."

Amy's eyes narrowed further. "And you're sure you didn't harass her? At all?"

"No more than she harassed me," John said, holding up a couple of fingers. "Scout's honor."

"Hmm," Amy said, "fine. I'm trying to imagine you having a civil conversation, though, and it's not coming easy. I don't think I've ever seen you take an instant disliking to someone like this. Well, except for that dreadful extra, what was her name?  _So_ much plastic surgery —"

" _Cassandra_ ," John said, nose wrinkling at the thought. "I don't  _dislike_ River."

"That's news to me," Amy said, crossing the room to flop down on the couch next to John. "You practically spit fire any time she comes near you."

He shifted his weight uncomfortably. 

Amy clapped a hand over her face. " _Please_ don't tell me this is some sort of grade school crush. Like, you're throwing milk cartons at her at recess or pulling her pigtails because you  _like_ her."

"No," John said quickly. Amy raised a brow. " _No_ , it's not like that. Anyone who's mean to you for sport isn't someone you should  _date_ , certainly. That's a terrible thing to say to people. When you and Rory have little Ponds, don't teach them that. That's how all those people end up in terrible relationships where there's shouting and all manner of terrible things. That's just an irresponsible story to excuse little boys behaving like..."

"Arseholes, yes," Amy said, "I happen to agree, thank you for the lecture. So what are you  _doing_?"

"I don't  _dislike_ her and I'm not — not...  _pulling_ her pigtails. I just can't help but react to her. Everything she does rubs me the wrong way.  _Looking_ at her makes me uncomfortable. I've never met anyone like her before."

"You're very similar you know," Amy said. 

"We are not!"

"Rubbish," Amy said, "you're both dorky science types who switched to the arts when you didn't feel like you had enough freedom. You both talk and think annoyingly fast, neither of you ever knows when to shut up, and neither of you can stay in the same country for more than a year or so without wanting to hang yourselves. You're practically the same person."

"That doesn't mean anything."

"I think you've never met anyone who can keep up with you before."

"That's not true," John said, reaching over to ruffle Amy's hair as she squealed and shoved him away. "You keep up just find. And Rory."

"Not in the same way," Amy said. "Don't get me wrong, we're rather clever, but sometimes you're just running miles ahead and we have to wait for you to slow down long enough to realize you've got to explain. River's just like you — I mean, you fight all the time, but neither of you ever really explain yourselves to one another. You just keep going and assume the other understands."

"So what?" John said. "So she's clever. Doesn't mean we have to be best friends."

"No, but I don't think you're used to someone challenging you like that," Amy mused. "I think she makes you nervous 'cause you're not used to meeting anyone like you."

John tugged at his collar, but he didn't respond. He didn't necessarily agree with Amy, but he wasn't so blind to reality as to ignore Amy's opinion, especially on him; if anybody knew him, it was Amy. They'd met very young — he was a few years older than Amy — and he'd gone to school with Amy before he'd even been put in a foster home. He was still living in the children's home, small and lost and raggedy, but Amy never mocked him or laughed when he got excited over silly things like cookies on people's birthdays or when Amy would bring him some small gift. He wasn't mistreated in the home, but he wasn't used to the comforts and — as he saw it — luxuries Amy was provided. Instead of teasing him, Amy delighted in his strangeness. But then he'd been placed with his first family and moved a couple of towns over, and it had taken him five years to track her down and show up on her doorstep. She almost hadn't forgiven him, but he'd worn her down, and they'd been inseparable ever since. Even when John was moved to new foster homes when he inevitably outstayed his welcome — given a bit of perspective, now, he sort of understood... he had never been what one would call  _manageable_ — they'd stayed in touch, until he'd moved in with Mrs. Idris, the eccentric older woman who'd truly taken him in and left him her house. Amy knew John nearly his whole life, and for all of her lack of subtlety, she tended to be very perceptive when it came to him.

He wasn't quite ready to agree with her, though he was thinking perhaps he'd miscalculated. From the moment he'd met River, he'd felt like something shifted — he tended to be open and free with his affection, and he fell in at least a little bit of love with everyone he met. Clara, Rose, Martha, Donna, Sarah Jane, Mickey — the list of people he'd encountered on his travels or worked with briefly whom he'd simply refused to let go of went on and on. And yet, when he'd met River, instead of grabbing tight, he'd immediately balked. He'd been all but running from her, but because they had to  _work_ together, he couldn't escape her; he was trapped, and backed into a corner, and it wasn't something he was used dealing with. Maybe he'd misread his own reaction though — maybe it wasn't that she was the first person he'd met that he wanted to stay far away from, maybe she was just the first person he'd met that he'd actually wanted to be close to. Maybe — he'd give the thought slight dispensation because Amy had put it in his head, but it still just felt like he and River Song were not meant to be colleagues, friends, or whatever they'd been in his kitchen the other night.

"You know what else?" Amy said, standing up. 

"What, Pond?"

"You'd better start getting ready, or you'll be late to my party." She grabbed his hands and pulled him to his feet, shoving him down the hallway to his room.

"What party?"

 _"_ The  _agency_ party, numpty," Amy said, "you need to be at my house to pick me, Rory, and River up in two hours."

"River's coming?" he said, frowning as she shoved him onto his bed and began rifling through his closet for his dress clothes.

"Everyone's going to be there," Amy said, "and you promised me you'd go. So put on your fancy bowtie, screw your head on straight, and quickly learn how to pretend to be charming."

He sniffed. "I can be charming if I want to be. Anyway, I'm feeling used — here I thought we were having a heart to heart, and you were just prepping me to be nice to River so as not to embarrass you at your party. You can't just  _spring_ this on me."

"First of all, raggedy man," Amy said, tossing his suit jacket, pants, and a shirt at him, followed by his shoes. She moved over to his dress and began rifling through drawers. "I didn't  _spring_ anything on you. You've known about this party for weeks. Second of all, being your friend is like having a full time job preventing you from injuring and or embarrassing yourself. You should thank me."

She threw a pair of socks at him and walked over to drop his bow tie in his lap.

"So rude," John said.

Amy leaned down and placed a smacking kiss on his forehead. "Don't be late, or I'll kill you and dump your body in the middle of the ocean so no one will find you ever again."

"Anyone ever tell you you're a bit scary?"

"Just you," Amy called over her shoulder as she disappeared through the doorway. "And Rory and sometimes RIver but you're all a bunch of babies. Two hours, John!"

He heard the door slam behind her and flopped back onto his bed, trying to steel himself for the prospect of an evening of networking and River Song. _  
_


	6. Chapter 6

John had showed up at the Ponds' house forty-five minutes late, but then, Amy knew him better than anybody and so he was still an hour early. They Amy and Rory crammed into the back seat, leaving River the sit beside him as they drove to the penthouse of some club that Amy and River were very excited about but he'd never heard of to talk to a bunch of Hollywood hot heads and exchange business cards as though it were an acceptable means of socialization. Plus, he had to wear the suit, and Amy had taken his top hat the moment she'd opened the door, so he didn't have that. The drive was relatively uneventful — mostly Amy going on and on about this and that while River laughed and teased Rory appropriately. She fit in with the Ponds seamlessly, in a way that few did; Amy and Rory were easy to get along with and easier to love, but they tended to be slightly off-beat and sometimes a bit too quick for most people to slip into conversation with the way River did. If he didn't have the gnawing sense of unease he always got when River was around, he would've thought she'd always been part of their group.

The penthouse was large and open with a long bar and a few couches set up here and there, waiters milling around with food and free drinks which, based on the volume at which everyone was speaking, John assumed people were taking advantage of. Rory and Amy immediately disappeared into the masses when Amy spotted somebody she knew — Rory mouthing 'be nice' to John over his shoulder as his wife dragged him away — and he was left shifting his weight back and forth on his feet with River at his side.

"So," John said.

"So," she said.

He glanced at her, about to say something to provoke her, but then, it was the first time he'd looked at her that night — he'd been annoyed about having to dress up, but he hadn't even  _thought_ about anyone else's attire. He'd never thought about River's attire, in particular; she tended to dress simply in neutral colors and tight pants — not that he noticed — tucked into tall boots, more like Indiana Jones than any writer he'd ever met. Tonight, though, she was wearing a long black dress with a corseted top that pushed her decolletage up in a truly impressive manner. She'd taken more care with her hair than usual, and in the half-light it looked like a lion's mane, gold and brilliant, and her lips were painted bright red. His eyes got caught on her waist and her chest and her lips and then back to her chest again before he finally managed to drag his eyes back up to her face.

"Sweetie?" River said.

"You look," John said, then stopped himself, because he felt like he might choke on his tongue. "You look..."

Her smile turned a bit smug, effectively snapping him out of it as he reached up to tug on his bow tie and shrugged his shoulders.

"You look alright," John said.

River laughed at him. "You've gone all red, John."

"It's hot in here," John said. 

He took a breath and turned to look at her again, but the moment he let his eyes slip from her face, he found himself staring openly at her breasts once again, which was not only rude, but such a frustratingly basic response that he simply couldn't  _do_ anything about. _  
_

"I'll bet," River said. She stepped nearer to him, reaching out to angle his chin up so that his eyes met hers, and he felt himself blush further. "My eyes are up here."

"You're not usually all..."

"No, and good thing too," River said, "imagine how much more difficult everything would be if you spent our meetings fighting with my breasts instead of me."

John was startled into laughter, and River joined in. "Can you imagine Amy breaking up that fight?"

"Or Rory, poor thing," River said, laughing again. 

"I'm so sorry," he said, scratching his head. "I don't know what's wrong with me. I'm a pillock."

"Yes," River said, "but at least you admit it."

John grinned at her, and they lapsed into silence, watching everyone else mill about around them. A waiter offered them drinks, which they both took and gulped down rather quickly before taking the next one. John leaned against the bar behind him, and River sighed, hopping up onto the bar stool and swirling the straw in her second drink.

"I hate these things," River said, "everyone's just trying to find their next job. It's all so phony."

"Another thing we agree on."

"Will the wonders never cease?"

John smirked, turning to look at her and flicking his eyes pointedly between her eyes and her chest. "Not while you're wearing that dress."

" _Stop_ ," River said, and John found his eyes following her lips as she sipped from her drink.

"Make me," John shot back.

She grinned, leaning forward to give his arm a squeeze with her hand where it rested on the bar. "Maybe I will."

"Dance?" he asked, startling even himself. River frowned in confusion.

"What?"

"Dance," John said, putting down his drink and making up his mind, "with me. There are people dancing, over there, on the floor. It'll bring Amy great joy if she sees us touching one another in a nonviolent fashion. Neither of us want to talk to anybody in this room, and if we're willing to put up with one another instead, the state of things must be dire. Dance with me."

"Has anyone ever told you you're a bit odd?" River said, but she took his hand and followed him to the small, dark makeshift dance floor in the corner where a handful of couples were already spinning slowly around.

"They never really seem to stop," said John. "Does it bother you?"

She shook her head, and he was surprised by how easily she settled into his arms. It must've been the dress, or her hair. Something about her tonight was throwing the universe out of order.

"It bothers me less than other things about you," River said conversationally as they began to dance, and John raised his brows.

"Oh? Do elaborate."

River grinned. "You're the most arrogant person I've ever met. You talk a mile a minute, never mind that no one can keep up with what you're saying, and you drink so much sugar in your tea that's it's not even tea anymore. You have no respect for other people's opinions and you never listen to a word anybody says to you."

John didn't answer immediately, pulling her a bit closer, his hand flattening over her lower back and drawing her into him so that he could feel her every movement as they danced. Her hand was small and warm and rough in his, like she worked with her hands a lot, and she felt strong and vital in his arms. He wondered what she did in her travels, when she wasn't writing.

"That's not true," John said.

"What part?"

"You can keep up," John said, quietly.

River didn't respond, but she relaxed into him, her hand resting by the collar of his shirt on the back of his neck, her thumb brushing gently against the skin there as they danced. River still made him vastly uncomfortable — her contempt for him was hardly under wraps, and everything about her put him on edge. He never knew what she was going to say or what she was going to do, and half the time, he thought she changed her mind, simply to get on his nerves. Still, the more  they were thrown together and forced to tolerate one another alone, the more he felt himself drawn to her, rather than repelled. It wasn't all good; he still felt the urge to fight with everything she said boiling just below the surface, and he wasn't certain they wouldn't throw one another's things another dozen times or so, but with her pressed against him, her breath curling against his cheek, he wanted to dig into her rather than bury her; he knew so little about her, and even if it ended in shouting matches and shattered dinnerware, he wanted to know everything, but he didn't know where to start, or  _how_ to start, or if she'd let him, and then he was also certain that the moment one of them moved, their trajectory would change again and they'd be back to enemies.

Now, though, she pulled back to look up at him, her brow furrowed slightly, her lips pursed, her eyes searching his, and he just wanted to crash into her.

"What is this?" River said. "Because most of the time, I'd take the news of your death quite cheerfully."

"I've dreamt about dancing on your grave," John admitted.

"But sometimes..." River said.

"But sometimes," John agreed.

He looked at her for a moment longer, until River rolled her eyes and looked away, a curl falling into her eyes. Without thinking, he reached out to push it back behind her ear, his palm skimming against her cheek, and the way she leaned into his touch made his heart lurch in his chest — he felt almost seasick, watching her, her cheek resting against his palm, her brow furrowed as she looked up at him. 

Abruptly, though, they heard Amy calling for them from across the room — based on the nonspecific manner of her shout, John assumed they hadn't been seen — and they sprung apart. John rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly as the walked over to join Amy and Rory, passing the rest of the evening without much worth remarking on, except that Amy also got quite bored playing the networking game, and began to make liberal use of the free drinks, coaxing Rory and River into doing the same (although John had to drive.) By the time they left, John had to practically herd them into his car, and halfway home Amy insisted that John take them to his house, because he had the best booze — all those Christmas gifts and congratulatory gifts and birthday gifts he never drank — and they were going to make a night of it. John thought about arguing, but when he pulled up to his house and they all flopped out of his car, River nearly tripped, and he had to grab and steady her, and she left her hand on his arm as they followed Amy and Rory to the door; whatever traitorous part of him that wanted to be near to her left him no choice but to sigh and let them into his house.


	7. Chapter 7

Amy was shockingly, gobsmackingly loud as she opened the door and stumbled into his house, making a beeline for the cupboard in his kitchen where he kept all the liquor he didn't really drink. Rory slung an arm around River the moment they got inside and dragged her over to the couch, telling her some story that made less than no sense about he and Amy's second date, and John sighed, closing the door behind him and following Rory and River over to his living room. It was sort of irksome how even River had noticed how uncomfortable John was when people invited themselves to his house, but Amy felt perfectly comfortable barging in whenever she pleased. Of course, he didn't particularly mind Amy's barging — it was what made her Amy, and a great agent, after all — but still, Amy's comments earlier in the day hadn't fallen on deaf ears. He and River  _noticed_ things about one another, even if they didn't like each other. John sighed, tugging at his bow tie to loosen it and shedding his jacket at the door before flopping down on the chair nearest the couch, facing Rory and River.

"Is he being serious?" River said.

"Most of that story was greatly exaggerated," John said, "or out of order."

"I figured that," River said, "I meant did they really have their first few dates in Venice?"

"John sent us," Rory said, his head lolling back onto the couch as he closed his eyes. Unfortunately for Amy, who could drink a bottle or twelve of alcohol and still be up for a bar crawl, her husband was decidedly less able to drink his body weight in liquor. He just tended to fall asleep if he got too far past tipsy. 

River smiled at him, reaching out to pat him more than a little patronizingly on the knee. "That's very romantic of you, sweetie," River said, smirking at him.

He grinned at her. "Well, as you said, I do have a romantic bo —"

"I'm sorry, are you two actually speaking, civilly?" Amy said, charging into the room with four glasses and two bottles tucked under her arms. Standing behind the couch where Rory sat, she all but dropped the glasses into his lap. "Oi, stupid face — set this on the table, would you?"

Rory jolted away and did as he was told as Amy sat down on the chair beside the Doctor and began to pour them all a more than generous measure of something clear.

"Vodka?" River asked, taking her glass. "Gin? Rum?"

Amy shrugged. "One or the other."

River shot John a wary look as Amy shoved a glass into his hands as well. River took a sip and then gagged.

"Did you  _mix_ them?"

"May have," Amy said, shrugging. "There's was one half empty bottle so I poured it into another! They're both clear, close enough, yeah?"

" _No,"_ John said, "not nearly." _  
_

"Well best drink fast then," Amy said, "you've got a lot of catching up to do."

With Amy's expert guidance and Rory's half-asleep, half-hearted encouragement at her behest, they all drank a rather lot of the horrible gin-vodka-rum mixture, and ended up drunk enough that they spent ten minutes laughing when Amy fell sideways off of her chair. John and River only fought twice, but they were also drunk enough that they lost focus too quickly to keep it up. John was having more than a little having trouble focusing in general, though, and he was grateful that neither Amy nor Rory had caught him the handful of times he'd been unable to shift his focus from River. Drunk and hazy, he found her just as irritating and arrogant and impossible, but somehow all of those things made her seem _wonderful_ — when she caught him staring, she smiled so widely he had the wild thought that she could swallow him whole.  _  
_

They passed a few hours in that manner — drinking far too much, laughing at nothing — until Rory truly had fallen asleep and even Amy's words were slurring off into nothing. When John pointed it out to her, Amy huffed at him and stood, going to grab Rory and drag him to his feet before dragging him further down the hallway.

"Hang on," John said, standing. He wasn't nearly as drunk as his friends, or River, but he was drunk enough that he had to brace himself on the back of the couch as he hurried to follow Amy, "where are you going?"

"We're sleeping in your room, raggedy man," Amy said, "we're your guests! You can drive us all back in the morning. An' give River the proper blankets, not the ones you keep on the floor of yer closet an' never wash..."

"But —" the door slamming cut John off, and he slumped in the doorway to the hall, leaning against the frame.

"Glad Amy mentioned," River said, "otherwise I certainly would've gotten the bad blankets."

John shook his head, sloughing back over to her and falling onto the couch. He landed a little closer to River than strictly necessary, but she didn't complain. She just toed off her heels and sighed.

"Guess I'm stuck here for the night."

"You could take a cab," John suggested.

River gave him an 'are you serious' look, and he shrugged.

"You  _can_ stay, but if you were, I don't know... uncomfortable, or something, you  _could_ take a cab. That's all I'm saying. I'm not kicking you out."

"That's a surprise," River said. She leaned back against the couch and turned her face to him, searching his expression in that careful way that made him shiver.

He shifted down in the couch to match her eyeline, letting his head loll back against the backrest as well. "I do have a sense of chivalry."

"And what's a girl to do with that?" River said with a laugh. "If I ever need anybody to joust for my honor, I'll give you a ring."

"It's a figure of speech," John said.

"It's a lousy one," River said, "but I'm glad to know you're letting me stay out of a larger sense of duty, because for a moment I was worried you actually liked me."

John scoffed. "No, it's definitely duty. And Pond. Anyone would be a fool to disobey her marching orders."

"Too right," River said. "She's rather wonderful, you know. Her and Rory. You're lucky to have them."

John nodded. He perhaps shifted closer to River, so that their thighs pressed up against one another. "They're the best. Totally mad, of course."

"Of course."

"But you have them too, you know," John said.

"For now," River said. "Don't get me wrong, I love them to death already, but the moment this film's over, we'll stay in touch for a few months, maybe a year, and then I'll never hear from them again."

"Not Amy," John said. "If she wants you in her life, you're in it for good."

"Maybe," River said, "but other than Rory, you're the most important person in the world to her. After we stop working together, she won't see any need to try and make us be civil to one another." John didn't reply, and after a moment, River sighed, her breath ruffling her curls endearingly as she glanced away from him. "It's a pity, though. I haven't felt like part of a family in a long time."

"What about your family?"

"Don't have one," River said. "Orphan."

"Foster parents?"

"After the twelfth home dropped me they gave up placing me," River said, shrugging. "I stayed in a children's home 'til I aged out of the system and they turned me out on the street."

John swallowed, reaching out to rest a hand on her leg. She looked down at his hand, but didn't comment. "I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't know."

River shrugged. 

"I won't keep Amy from you," John said. "Promise."

"That's good," River said. "Although I was rather hoping you wouldn't keep you from me either."

River sidled closer to him still, turning to face him fully so that her knees were pressed to his leg, her face leaning close to his as she reached out to card a hand through his hair, her nails scraping against his scalp in a way that made him shudder.

"I thought we said this wasn't a good idea," John said, but he reached out for her anyway, wrapping an arm around her waist and pulling her onto his lap. There were so many things about their relationship he needed to think over, and so many things that simply weren't good; he didn't think for a minute that their fighting had stopped with any permanency, and she still made him all kinds of uneasy. But he'd had quite a lot to drink and her dress had been taunting him all night and she was so warm and strong and vital as she settled onto his lap, her legs on either side of him, her back arching to press her chest against his, he couldn't help but draw her even closer.

"Yes, well," River said, "I was sober when we decided that. I've had quite a lot to drink and I'd rather like to see what this  _sometimes_ we talked about is. Is that alright with you?"

John nodded, and she nodded back, settling more comfortably against him. She rested one hand on his shoulder and left the other in his hair, driving him mad with the patterns she traced with her fingers. She watched his face so carefully as she pressed her hips down into his, watched his mouth fall open, watched his throat as he swallowed. She leaned closer to him, her mouth opening on a gasp as he slid his hands from her sides to her back, flattening them and pressing her against him, rubbing up and down her spine as she rolled her hips against him until they were gasping into one another's mouth, and he thought it was maybe the most erotic experience he'd ever had; River with her hair like a halo around her, lips barely touching his, eyes locked on his, her hands smoothing all down her neck and shoulders and chest as she moved over him until he was so hard he could barely stand her to touch him. He glanced down, leaning forward to press a kiss to the decolletage that had been distracting him all night, and when she let out a whimper he did it again, open-mouthed, scraping his teeth gently against her soft skin. She tasted like jasmine and vanilla, soft and bright and sweet, and he kept kissing her and sucking on her skin as she squirmed against him until she was chanting  _sweetie_ in his ear, softly, over and over, and he wondered how he ever got irritated with her calling him that when it sounded so sexy falling from her lips. When he ran his tongue over her pulse point, he could tell that's where she dabbed her perfume, and nipped at the section of skin until she fisted her hand in his hair and tugged his face up to hers again.

" _Sweetie_ ," she moaned again, pressing her hips down against his as he slid his hands up to graze over the sides of her breasts.

"Yes?"

"I'm going to kiss you now," River said, "try not to fight with me about it."

"Just this once," he said.

She caught his eye and nodded. "Just this once."

He nodded back and then  _finally_ she kissed him, and he felt with a sudden, startling clarity that he'd been waiting to kiss her since the moment they met. Her lips were soft and warm and tasted tart with her lipstick, but he didn't even care as she let out a little moan and opened her mouth to him, running her tongue over his, over the roof of his mouth in a way that made his toes curl. He slid his hands around her body, delighting in the feel of it as he began to bunch up her dress, moving more and more hurriedly until he could slide his hands beneath and finally reach her skin. He slid his hands up her thighs and felt her skin prickle with goosebumps until he reached her ass, gripping her as she sighed into his mouth and pulling her down so that he could press his hips up into her, and she moaned into his mouth. He didn't think he'd ever been so hard in his entire life, and they were fully clothed, on the couch, and all she'd done was kiss him.

He'd just begun to work his fingers under the elastic of her lacey knickers when he heard the door to his bedroom open, and footsteps padding down the hallways. He and River both froze, and then flew apart like shrapnel. River stood on uneasy legs, barely catching herself on the back of the couch as she made to run away from him, and John grabbed for the nearest pillow, setting it on his lap just in time for Amy to appear in the doorway.

"I'm too dizzy to sleep," she complained, "meanwhile, stupid face passed out before he even hit the bed."

She sighed, seeming to take no notice of River awkwardly standing behind the couch and John staring very determinedly at the pillow in his lap, and sat down on the couch next to John. Laying back on the arm of the couch, she propped her feet up on John's lap, which pretty much made him want to cry, and he covered his mouth with his hand to keep from shouting at Amy as she shifted around her feet getting comfortable.

"I'm... going to call a cab," River said from behind them. 

John wanted to stop her more than anything he thought he'd ever wanted in his life — he didn't know when he'd gone from throwing River forcibly from his house and begrudging her presence in it to begin with to wanting her so close that their bones collided, but he'd also never felt such a strong urge to kill Amy before, so he supposed it was both a strange night and the alcohol.

"Are you sure?" Amy said. "What's John gone and done now? Your car's at our place still."

River waved her hand, and John wondered if Amy saw it shake before River buried it in her hair. "I'll meet you back here tomorrow morning."

"Good," Amy said, "come with breakfast."

River laughed, and Amy closed her eyes as River went into the kitchen to phone her cab.

"Go to bed, Pond," John said.

"Can't sleep," Amy said.

"Then don't sleep somewhere else."

"Why's that, then?" Amy said, opening one eye. "You busy, or something?"

" _No_ ," John said, "I just want to go to sleep, and you've already commandeered my bed, the  _least_ you can do is leave me the couch."

Amy sighed. "Fine. Make sure River gets in the cab okay, yeah?"

"Yeah," John said, "now go to bed."

Amy lurched to her feet, ruffled John's hair, and disappeared down the hallway. The moment he heard the door clothes he leapt over the back of the couch and followed River into the kitchen stopping her mid-sentence with a kiss. She let out a yelp of surprised, muffled by his lips, and he could hear the cab company speaking dimly on the line of the phone as she melted against him and kissed him back. He let his hands wander all over her, and dimly thought about how he ever had ignored how perfect she was. She was infuriating, of course, and too arrogant to be believed and he wasn't sure there was any future in this past the current moment — certainly no  _extended_ future, because as she went for the buttons on his shirt, tugging it out of his trousers and scraping her nails over the skin of his back as she ran her hands down his bare skin beneath his shirt, his mind ran in a million different directions, and he couldn't see any future with River where they lived under the same roof and got a dog and cooked dinners, because they'd  _kill_ one another in a week flat, but he realized that he wanted her, and not just physically; he wanted to be under her skin and in her head and to have her around always to push at him and fight with him and tell him when he was being unbearable and challenge him to think faster and work harder and be better, like he did to her. 

He backed her into the counter —  _this_ was how the other night should've ended, he thought, tangled up in River with her whimpering into his mouth in a way that made his whole body feel pulled tight like a bowstring — and as soon as she hit it she pulled away, gasping for a moment before muttering something quickly into her phone, hanging it up, and then dragging him forward by his open shirt.

"This is insane," River panted, as he moved his mouth from hers to kiss his way down her neck, dragging his teeth down her throat. "All we do is fight."

"Fighting can be fun," John said, unable to resist kissing her again as she laughed.

River hummed, running her hands down his stomach and catching her fingers on the edge of his trousers. "Imagine how much fun it would be if instead of throwing things or storming off, we resolved our issues more... creatively."

John moaned against her mouth, their eyes locking as she undid the button on his trousers and slid her fingers beneath the waistband, teasing the top of his pants. He felt like she was asking for permission, and so he nodded at her, and she nodded back, kissing his chin and slipping her fingers beneath the waistband of his pants and taking him in hand. He kissed her to keep himself from making a sound as she worked him over slowly, slipping one of his hands beneath the neckline of her dress to grip her breast, squeezing gently. He ran a thumb over her nipple and rubbed his palm over her, applying just enough pressure to make her squirm and her breathing hitch, his other hand sliding around her to grip her ass and pull her tightly into him. They shifted slightly off center so he could press a leg between hers, and she sighed as he leaned it against her and she settled against him, rolling her hips over him, her hand trapped between them as he tried to keep focus and not come from the gentle but insistent movements of her hand.

"That doesn't sound —  _ah_ — healthy," he gasped out as she pulled away from him, throwing her head back as he switched his hand to her other breast.

"Well," River said, her voice thin, "if we talk while we do this, we can... work off the... frustration and... and solve our problems."

"That doesn't sound healthy," he repeated with a breathless laugh.

"I think you're confusing healthy with conventional," River said.

"Why am I getting the feeling you're less surprised than I am?"

"Because," River said, reaching down to start bunching up her own dress. Realizing what she was doing, John reached down to help her. "From the moment I met you, I've wanted to see that adorable, infuriating face between my thighs."

John groaned, grabbed the hand that was still in his pants and tugging it out, unsure whether he'd been pushed too close to the edge by her hand or her words. They awkwardly hoisted her long dress up around her waist, and he immediately pressed against her, kissing her again as he slid a hand into her pants and ran the pads of his fingers along her folds teasingly, lightly pressing his index finger against her clit as her hips bucked into him.

"Hell of a way of showing it," John said, kissing her eyelids as she closed her eyes and gasped, one hand gripping the counter as he slid a finger into her.

"You also make me more angry than anyone I've ever met," River said, "I didn't say it wasn't complicated, just that I've been waiting _weeks_ for this.  _God_ you feel good."

" _I'm_ kinky," he said, rolling his eyes and adding a second finger on his next stroke, "meanwhile you've been waiting weeks for impulsive sex with someone you hate."

"I don't hate you," River said, her voice getting higher as he pressed his thumb against her clit and began to move his hand faster. He couldn't resist pressing his body up against hers, feeling her chest rise and fall rapidly against his, grinding his erection against her; she reached her hand around him to grip his ass, encouraging him as he dropped his head to bury it in her neck, resisting the urge to bite down so hard on her skin he left a mark. "We're just very similar."

"I tried to ignore that," John said. 

"Why?"

"It scared me," he said, honestly. "You scare me."

 " _John_ ," she said, her voice higher than he'd ever heard it, and he felt her quivering around his hand. He moved his hips against hers harder, feeling himself climbing higher on the sound of her gasps and the feeling of her, hot and wet around his fingers, and he wanted to stop and to  _really_  feel her, to undress her and feel her all over and around him, but he didn't think he could stop, and he didn't think she'd want him to, and this had been building out of sync between them for weeks. He gave up on resisting the urge to bite down on the side of her neck then, and as he did she let out a sharp cry, chanting his name in his ear over and over interspersed with  _sweetie_ until he couldn't distinguish one from the other.

" _River_ ," he said, "I can't —"

"Don't stop," she said, " _please_ don't —"

Her breath hitched again and she felt so tight and so good around him, and she smelled amazing, and the sounds she made went straight to his groin and as he drew his hand out one more time, he heard the door of his bedroom slam again, and they both froze.

"John?" Rory's voice called from the hallway. John had never wanted to kill Rory before, either, but in the moment, if he'd had a weapon on hand, he thought he might have.

After a moment of hesitation, River pushed John away, hurrying to right her dress as John quickly rebuttoned his shirt. He didn't know what good any of it would do, though, glancing briefly at River — her face was flushed, her eyes were dark and hooded, her hair was a mess, and she couldn't catch her breath. He was sure he wouldn't look much better, and he couldn't do anything else but lean against the counter, folding his hands awkwardly in front of his still unbuttoned trousers and hope Rory would leave quickly and not notice. He barely looked awake as he stumbled into the doorway of the kitchen.

"What are you doing in here?" Rory asked, rubbing a hand over his face. "Amy wanted me to come pay for River's cab."

"Oh, bugger," River said, and John wondered if Rory noticed how sexy she sounded. Certainly she didn't sound like that all of the time. "The driver's probably outside. He should've been here five minutes ago."

"I thought you'd canceled it," John said, looking at River quickly without even thinking.

"I was —" she cut herself off, glancing briefly at Rory before correcting herself. "No, why would I do that?"

"I don't know," John said, laughing awkwardly to try and cover himself, "why would you do that?"

Rory looked between them a couple of times before shrugging. "Well, come on, then. I want to get back to sleep."

"Alright," River said, nodding, looking totally lost, and John couldn't help feeling smug, even if he was more frustrated than he'd ever been in his entire life. "Thank you, dear."

"I'll go pay," Rory said, "grab your coat."

River nodded, looking at John briefly before following Rory out of the kitchen. John waited a half a second before deciding to follow, so closely behind her that the minute Rory closed the front door and River turned around to look at him, he hardly had to move before they were kissing again, and this time it was her grabbing him by the collar of his badly buttoned shirt, turning them around, and pinning him against the door.

"Don't leave," John said.

"I thought we agreed this was a bad idea," River said, but she kissed her way down his neck anyway. He grabbed her in fistfuls; he'd been so close moments ago, and he didn't care if he came in his pants like a teenager, he wanted her so close he couldn't breathe  _now_. 

"I thought we said  _sometimes."_

"Even still," River said, "what do you suggest? 'Sorry, Rory, thanks for the cab fare, but I'm going to spend the night to shag your friend, whom you think I hate, on the couch while you and Amy are in the other room'?"

"No need to be specific," John said, "could be the kitchen counter or the armchair or this door here or the floor or —"

River giggled, and he had to kiss her again. He almost forgot that Rory was on the other side of the door at all until someone tried to open it, and they both stumbled out of the way to let Rory back in. John quickly handed River her coat and all but fled into his living room, listening to Rory say goodbye to a rather breathless River as he flopped, face down, onto the couch, and tried not to think of how satisfying it would be to strangle Rory with the pillow.

"What was wrong with the door?"

"Nothing," John said, "I was just — er — getting River's coat from the back of it."

Rory paused. "You haven't got hooks on the back of your door."

John didn't respond.

"You're odd," Rory said. "G'night."

The only thing that John could think to say would've offended even Amy, so he kept his mouth shut.


	8. Chapter 8

Unsurprisingly, he didn't sleep much that night. He spent most of it willing River out of his mind, because every time he thought about doing something to eat into his frustration his hand got barely beneath his trousers before Amy got up to use the bathroom or Rory started snoring or they otherwise did something to remind him how bloody disruptive they were, and how embarrassed he'd be if they decided to come into the living room, and so the only alternative was to lie on his stomach until his erection abated. Every time he fell asleep, though, his dreams picked up where real life had left off, and he woke up back at square one. It was around six in the morning by the time he'd calmed down and sobered up enough to really think about things, and that only made it more complicated.

He was definitely interested in River Song. More than interested — he couldn't get her off of his mind. He thought that seeing her again was going to be near torture, because he'd spend the whole time itching to touch her. Still, they didn't have a track record for getting along. Things had been better recently, but he wasn't sure if it was a temporary fluke, or if it was simply in their apparently mutual interest, or if it was something more significant. And if it was anything but the latter, it wasn't really worth destroying what little working relationship they did have, was it? John could only imagine how ludicrously unproductive they'd be if they did start sleeping together, and then had a falling out, although perhaps there was even something telling in that thought; he didn't see it as a one-off. He couldn't imagine getting it out of their systems and then never going near one another ever again. If it was going to be anything, it was going to be  _something_ , and as he'd said to River, that  _terrified_ him. He'd never met anybody like her, and there were ways in which he could see them being good for one another, and then there was also the possibility that he wouldn't survive her.

He loved people, generally. Loving people specifically had always been hard for him, and tended to end in heartbreak. It had taken him years to cultivate the little family he had now in Amy and Rory, and the wonderful friendships he'd made over the years. Trusting others, after his slapdash upbringing, wasn't easy in general, but this thing with River was something else entirely. What he'd thought a day ago had been confirmed for him. He didn't want to be far from River at all. He wanted to be frighteningly close to her, and he'd never  _felt_ that before. He wasn't a virgin and he'd had a romantic entanglement or twelve over the years, but the two things, for him, rarely overlapped, and he was definitely more prone to the latter. There'd been Rose, whom he'd loved, whom he'd dated, but he'd only ever wanted to be close to her — they'd gone for long walks and dinners and he'd sometimes bought her flowers and held hands and he'd grinned at her like an idiot, but sex had never crossed his mind during that time. There'd been Jack, whom he'd never for a moment wanted to buy flowers or take on dates or hold hands with, but who he'd ended up in bed with after an appallingly short amount of time of acting like he wasn't attracted to him. There'd been others, before, after, and in between, but River was such an  _anomaly_ to him. He was clearly attracted to her physically, and though they fought constantly, he could see himself showing up on her doorstep with flowers or holding her hand over dinner. He couldn't imagine a future with River, per se, but he could see both being with her and  _being_ with her, and that was new. That was scary. He had many wonderful people in his life, but he always kept them at a distance. He wanted River so close he couldn't tell where he ended and she began. If he let that happen, he thought, and he was wrong — if they really hated one another, if she didn't feel the same, if it was only temporary — he thought he'd just about lock himself in his house and never come out again.

Some part of him felt like River had come into his life to ruin him, and some part of him felt like River had come into his life to save him. All of him felt like River would tear him limb from limb for thinking she had any purpose in life that wasn't her own at all, but he shoved that thought aside.

He must've fallen asleep eventually, because he eventually woke up to Amy dropping a pillow onto his face.

"Morning, sleepy head," Amy said, "you look horrific."

"Thanks so much," John grumbled, "it's your fault. You made me sleep on the couch."

"It's polite to offer guests your bed," Amy said, shoving his legs off of the couch and sitting down. 

"I didn't offer you the bed," John said, "you  _took_ it."

"I'm teaching you manners."

John sighed and covered his face with his hands, trying to drown out Amy's unusually piercing voice, but she refused to be ignored, going on and on about what she hoped River brought for breakfast, and how she'd texted River than morning to talk about the night before, and how she was so glad River had come with them until he got dragged into it directly.

"What did you do out here, anyway?" Amy said. "It took me like fifteen to convince Rory to go pay for her cab, mostly to keep you two from being alone. God, you didn't actually fight, did you?"

"It was fine," John said, leaving a hand over his face so that she wouldn't see him flush. "We just... talked."

"About what?"

"This and that," John said, "when's she getting here, anyway? What time is it?"

"Nearly noon," Amy said. 

"I thought she was bringing breakfast. She's late."

Amy rolled her eyes, huffing as someone knocked on the door. John immediately leapt to his feet, and Amy raised a brow.

"What're you doing?"

"Nothing!" John said quickly. "I just... was startled."

"Yeah, alright," Amy said. "I'm going to go wake Rory up. Let her in, and be nice."

John grumbled something indistinct in response, and the moment Amy was out of sight, hurried to the door to let River in. He practically beamed at her the moment he saw her, and then grinned even wider when she sighed at him and rolled her eyes. Her hair was enormous, tied back but barely restrained by her hair tie, and a pair of large sunglasses sitting on top of her head. She looked like she hadn't slept much either, and after sighing at him again, she shoved a couple of bags of pastries and a tray of coffee into his hands.

"Stop gawking and be useful," River said, pushing past him into his house.

He shut the door behind him, following her into the kitchen.

"You just look so stunning," John said, layering on enough sarcasm that she glared at him, "I couldn't take my eyes off of you."

He dropped the food and coffee onto the table, and together they started unpacking it.

"I didn't sleep well," River said.

"At least you had your house to yourself," John said. "I had the Ponds milling about all night. I swear they didn't sleep a minute."

River sighed. "It didn't make much of a difference. I wasn't exactly looking for a... solo performance."

John felt himself blush up to his ears. Tugging on his hair, he tried to shove the mental image out of his head before choking out, "you should've just stayed."

"What was I meant to do, then?" River said. "The cab was already here."

"You should've canceled it to begin with."

"I wasn't exactly thinking clearly in the moment," River said, " _somebody_ jumped me mid phone call."

"After, then!"

"I'm sorry," River said, "is this really something you wanted to discuss with Rory last night? Because it was either leave or explain why I was staying, which I'm sure you wouldn't have wanted." 

"Of course not," John said. He grabbed the milk from the refrigerator, pouring it into River's cup after she opened it.

"Thank you, sweetie," River said. "That's what I thought. We'll just have to make other arrangements."

"Other arrangements?" John said, lifting a brow at her as he said down and took a pastry, picking at it and watching her pull the sugar from his counter and bring it back to the table."I was sort of just hoping you'd... stay this morning."

"No," River said, "we'd still have to explain why I didn't just leave with Amy and Rory to get my car." 

John sighed, opening the lid of his coffee for her as she spooned just the right amount of sugar in. "Thanks, dear."

"So polite this morning," River said, "do you realize we just had an entirely civil conversation?"

"We do that sometimes," John said. "Or, well, we did. Civil, anyway — certainly not civilized."

"Not at all," River said, "I was pleasantly surprised, if I'm being honest."

"Oh? I thought you'd been expecting that for weeks."

"In general, yes," River said, sitting down in the chair beside him. "But you were far more aggressive than I'd anticipated. You're always sort of... flouncing around and making ridiculous hand gestures and tripping over your own feet. I figured it would be more of a Mrs. Robinson scenario."

"I resent that!"

"Hello, Benjamin," she said with the sort of grin that made him a bit light-headed. He must've flushed again, because she laughed at him, reaching out to pinch his cheek teasingly, but he caught her hand, bringing it to his lips and kissing her palm. She bit her lip, and he did it again, and then kissed her wrist, nipping briefly at the skin there. She inhaled sharply and he tugged on her hand to pull her closer — she leaned up out of her chair and practically lunged at him, tangling her hands in his hair and kissing him, slowly and deeply, resting one leg on her chair and the rest of her weight on him as they kissed. He pulled away from her after a moment, looking around, startled.

"Amy and Rory are here," he reminded her.

"I know," River said, "if they weren't, we'd be a lot less clothed."

"I would've give you a much more thorough hello," John said.

"I like the sound of that."

"I'll just bet you do, you bad girl."

She kissed him again, all but climbing into his lap. She tasted like toothpaste and like burnt, milky coffee, and he still could've kissed her for hours. He slid a hand under the fabric of her t-shirt, dragging his nails along the skin of her spine until it prickled with goosebumps and she sighed into his mouth. He loved kissing River. He'd only done it a couple of times, but he imagined he could do it just about forever without getting tired of it — of course, right now, after the way they'd spent the night before, his patience was wearing thin and he felt like he'd go mad if he didn't have all of her at that moment, but Amy and Rory would no doubt interrupt them and they'd just agreed they weren't ready to jump that hurdle just yet. He let his hands fall away from her, and she loosened her grip on his hair as they slowly separated with a few glancing kisses. She paused, her face close to his, and he couldn't resist nuzzling his nose against her cheek. She scrunched up her face adorably at that before settling back into her seat, and for the first time, he felt properly besotted with her.

Amy came clomping into the room before John could say anything — which was probably for the best, because the only words on the tip of his tongue were soppy and too heavy for their new, unstable relationship and he would've regretted them instantly — dragging Rory behind her. Amy made a beeline for the food and coffee, plopping down in a chair and biting into a danish with a sigh of satisfaction. Rory looked between River and John as he sat down, and they both looked away from one another quickly. John stared intently at the coffee in front of him. If anybody was going to notice, it was going to be Rory — he was so used to having Amy charging ahead of him and sharing her every thought without a single reservation, he'd become annoyingly perceptive by lingering behind her. While Amy knew John like a book, it was always Rory who would hang back and bring up the things John could even hide from Amy. And he wasn't ready for Rory to pick up on whatever was between he and River — he wasn't ready to have that conversation with anybody, not even with River, because it was all still so fragile and uncertain and combustible and  _new_ to him. He scratched his cheek nervously, and Rory sighed, shaking his head.

Breakfast was uneventful. Amy and River mostly chatted with John occasionally piping in to and try and hide the fact that he was too busy untangling thoughts in his own head to really have a conversation, and ending up saying exactly the wrong thing each time. Amy even leaned over the table to whack him on the head at one point, and he yelped in surprise.

"What's the matter with you?" Amy said. "You've hardly said a word all morning and every word you do say sounds mad."

"Maybe it's because I didn't get much sleep last night," John said, glaring at her and rubbing his head. " _Someone_ made me sleep on the couch."

"At least I didn't make you so uncomfortable you had to  _leave_ ," Amy said, glancing pointedly at River. River made a slight noise of protest and Rory snorted into his coffee, but John chose to ignore both of those things.

"I didn't  _tell_ her to leave," John said. 

"No," River agreed, "he only implied it very heavily."

"I did not!"

 "Oh, please," River said, looking at her half-eaten croissant rather than at him, "we started bickering the moment Amy and Rory left the room."

John huffed, about to bite something back, but she'd reached a hand over to rest on his knee, and he realized that she wasn't trying to get a rise out of him so much as cover their tracks — part of him was grateful, because she was far more self-possessed than he, and with her also trying to keep the  _whatever it was_ a secret, he was much more likely to succeed. Part of him, however, was also slightly offended. Certainly last night hadn't been the time to broach the subject with Amy and Rory; they'd all been drinking, and he wasn't sure even how they'd have worded it, but this morning they were sober and simply having breakfast. There was no reason they couldn't be honest and say that they were... well, he didn't know. Still, he was offended. John tugged at his collar.

"You started it," he said.

"Did not," River replied, raising a brow at him. " _You_ started it. Too bad you didn't finish it it."

John felt like someone had suddenly turned up the thermostat a few hundred degrees with the look she gave him, and he stammered at her for perhaps a full minute before Rory clapped him on the back. She gave his knee a squeeze under the table, and he thought his eyes would bug out of his head. Well, so much for River being self-possessed and reasonable about this whole thing.

"What's that, John?" Amy said, laughing. "No come back?"

"Mm," River said, "I know I'm hard to keep up with, but I thought you'd last longer than that."

 _Why_ was every word out of her mouth suddenly an innuendo? John felt his face flush red and instead of responding, he glared at them all and tried to act as though he were just irritated, and not fantasizing about River's hand moving up quite a bit farther into his lap.

"We should probably go," Amy said, "before John has some sort of break down."

"Might be too late, poor thing," River said, giving him a sympathetic look at which he narrowed his eyes, before removing her hand from his leg to grab her phone. "I'll be ready in a — oh, no."

"What is it?" Rory said.

River sighed. "They want a rewrite of a few of the pages."

"Shocking," Amy said.

"Yeah," River said, "but they want them now. Sweetie, can I borrow your laptop?"

"As long as you don't break it."

"What do you think I'm going to do with it, karate?"

"I don't know your routine. Writers are weird. You, especially."

"I'll take that as a compliment," River said, standing. 

"Don't," John said.

She chose to ignore him, instead going to leave the kitchen, presumably in search of his laptop.

"Amy, Rory, you can go home. I'll make John drive me over to get my car after I've finished."

"Are you sure?" Amy said. "I don't want you two to kill one another in the meantime. I'm also not sure I want you two in the car together. You'll probably get too distracted fighting and crash." 

"They'll be fine," Rory said. 

"Laptop?" River called from the next room.

"Under the coffee table," John called back. "We'll be fine, Ponds. This way at least I can have some input before she finalizes the pages. Maybe it'll even prevent a fight."

Amy hesitated, but Rory took the initiative for her, standing and dragging her with him. "They'll be  _fine_. They're not your children."

"May as well be," Amy sniffed. "Fine, but you promise to be nice to her?"

"As nice as I can manage," John said, drawing an x on either side of his chest.

Amy voiced more concerns as Rory shepherded her to the doorway, and when they finally called out their goodbyes and the door closed, John stayed put a moment longer, sure it was far too good to be true. River  _couldn't_ have manufactured them some alone time that quickly and painlessly — he almost expected Amy or Rory to barge back in at any minute with some bumbling excuse to ruin his entire life, and so he sat, legs bouncing against the ground, eyes on the clock, for a full for minutes before he finally lurched to his feet and practically jogged into the living room to find River sitting on his couch with his computer in her lap, eyes locked on the screen.

"You don't really have pages to write," John said.

"I really do," River said.

" _No_ ," John said. "Really? I thought it was just a clever ruse."

"I don't need a clever ruse to get you in bed," River said, "thus far you've proved highly prone to my persuasive abilities."

John made a noise of irritation, coming to stand behind her, watching her type over her shoulder. " _River_."

"Yes?"

" _Seriously?_ "

"Shut up," River said, ignoring him as he planted both hands on the back of the couch and leaned over her so that his face was beside hers. He saw her shiver as he turned to nuzzle his nose against her cheek.

"The pages can wait."

"So can you."

"You seriously overestimate my self-control."

"I doubt it," River said, "you're one of the most tightly wound people I've ever met."

"Tightly — ? I am not!"

"Oh, sweetie, you are too," River said. "I think one out of every million sentences out of your mouth is sincere."

"Not true," John said. "I'm a very genuine person. An open book, if you will."

River snorted. "You've got enough tawdry quirks to open up a tawdry quirk shop, honey."

John pulled away from her slightly, sighing into her enormous hair. "I think I'm offended."

"I don't mean to offend you, for once," River said.

"I know," he said. He leaned back into her, kissing the side of her neck. "You're not wrong about all of it, but I can be... open, if I want to be."

"I think that's my line."

"That's disgusting," John said, kissing her neck again as she laughed, squirming a bit on the couch as he kissed her neck again, opening his mouth and running his tongue over her soft skin. She sighed, and he could've thrown his hands in the air in triumph when she slid the computer off of her lap and left it on the couch, tilting her head to the side and letting him continue.

"I should probably mention," River said, "I'm not very good at this."

John slid his hands down the couch to run his hands down her sides, feeling her back arch instinctively. "Good at what?"

"Being open," River said, "and relationships in general."

"I'm not exactly asking you to marry me."

River laughed. "No, but even still. I tend to leave people — men, specifically — worse off than I find them."

"What a coincidence," John said. "I'm the same way."

"Then this," River said, turning around to face him. She ran a hand through his hair and held his gaze, and felt a little bit like he were being hypnotized. She could've told him to do anything in the world in that moment, and he would've done it. "Is either a very, very bad idea, or the best we've ever had."


	9. Chapter 9

"We're going to make a go of this, then? I just want to be clear, and sure, because Amy and Rory aren't going to be popping 'round to get in the way."

"Whatever this is," River said, "if we don't make a go of it in the next five seconds I'm going to expire from frustration. But thank you for asking."

"Good," John said, "glad we're on the same page."

She nodded quickly as he leaned forward to kiss her, and this time there were no Ponds to get in their way. The back of the couch between them was a hindrance, but they didn't let it stop them — her mouth immediately opened under his, her upper body pressing against his as she tugged him closer by his hair, her tongue running over his, trailing over the roof of his mouth. He wanted to absolutely devour her, and he slid his hands beneath her shirt, tugging it up. When he reached her neck, she pulled away from him, dragging her teeth over his lower lip until he could get the shirt off of her and throw it across the room, and then they were kissing again.

Her skin was so soft beneath his hands, and he could feel her heart beating rapidly against him as she moaned, dropping one hand from his hair to reach behind her and unhook her bra. They maneuvered it off of her quickly, never stopping to breathe, and her fingers were at the buttons of his shirt as he wrapped his arms around her bare back and pulled her up, helping her slide over the back of the couch as she pressed kisses to his throat and helped shuck his shirt off of him. 

She giggled against his mouth as she fell clumsily to her feet in front of him, and it only made him want to kiss her harder; he was able to hold her whole body against him now, her bare chest against his, and although he was sure the view would be divine, he couldn't pull himself away from her long enough to look down. He pressed her against the couch, reaching his hand around to tug at the elastic waistband of her pants from behind, shoving his hands down them to grab her bare ass, and she moaned into his mouth, scraping her fingernails against his back. He pulled away from her to kiss his way down her neck, and she gasped, gripping his hair with one hand and reaching the other between them to tug at the buttons on his trousers until she'd gotten them undone and shoved them down.

He stepped out of them clumsily and stumbled backwards as she laughed, holding tight to him as he shed his pants and found his balance, and then she was kissing him again, smiling against his mouth, and he was smiling too, and he didn't know when River Song had acquired the ability to make him feel so silly and giddy, but he couldn't stop smiling as he kissed her, sliding his hands down her bare sides and beneath the elastic of her pants. She helped him slide them off, knickers and all, until she was bare against him. He pulled away from her, still grinning, to look her up and down, and he wasn't sure he'd ever seen a person more physically beautiful in his life — she could've been a goddess in some old painting, or an old Hollywood movie star, or the muse to some tortured artist. 

"You're beautiful," he said, perhaps too reverently, because she rolled her eyes at him, stepping toward him again to slide down his pants. He managed to step out of them more easily this time. She trailed the back of her knuckle against his erection. His smile faltered and he closed his eyes as she did it again. 

"Was that a compliment?"

"Statement of fact," he said, outright beaming again as he leaned down to kiss her. He was used to kissing her now, and they went well together — she was demanding in the way that she kissed, grasping hands and throaty sounds and teeth dragged over his lower lip every time she pulled away, and he was willing to give her whatever she needed, his mouth pliant and receptive against hers.

She wrapped her arms around his neck, his erection pressing against her stomach, and when she moaned and pressed closer to him his eyes practically rolled back in his head. He'd wanted her so badly for hours and hours now, and just the feel of her soft, bare skin against him probably could have done him in. She leaned into him further still, and he reached a hand around behind her, running it over the curve of her frankly glorious ass again before pressing it against the back of her thigh, encouraging her to lift it, and he held it up against his hip so that she could grind herself against him. He had to stop kissing her to breathe, and his balance wasn't good on the best of days, but his knees were starting to feel a bit weak, and was leaning her weight against him, and he started to stumble backwards.

She went with him, shifting her weight where her arms rested over his shoulders to lift her other leg up to wrap both legs around him, and he caught her clumsily, falling further backwards until his back collided with the wall. He couldn't be bothered to stop her or move her, though, because with her thighs around his hips, every time she shifted her weight as she kissed him, she rubbed herself against his aching cock, soft and warm and wet. Digging his fingers into her ass with one hand to hold her tight, he groped behind him to find the doorway to the hallway through which they'd reach his  _bed_.

They stumbled down the hallway, banging into walls, breaking away from one another only to laugh. When he reached the door to his room, he pressed her against it, and was distracted from his goal of reaching the doorknob by the newfound leverage; using the door to brace her back and take some of her weight, she could roll her hips against his until her moans were so loud they sent chills down his spine. He reached a hand between them, apparently given up on the door knob entirely, to press a finger to her clit, rolling it under his thumb until she was practically singing for him.

"You feel so good," he said, kissing the side of her mouth. "I could come just doing this."

River gasped out a laugh. "I don't think that's me, sweetie, I think that's the twenty-four hours between foreplay and —  _guh_ — now."

He chuckled against her neck, kissing his way down as she arched her back, one hand threading through his hair and encouraging him as he kissed his way across her chest, running his tongue over her nipple and nipping lightly at the soft skin. She moved her hips more frantically against him, sliding against his erection, his thumb moving rapidly over her clit and when he pressed down as he bit the side of her breast just hard enough to leave a blotch of red, she cried out, tugging at his hair to pull him away from her.

"Please," she said, "that was a  _hint_ , you utter idiot, stop teasing and get inside of me."

"Be nice," he choked out as she reached between them to grab his cock and rest it at her entrance, and the next time she rolled her hips she slid down onto him, and he pressed up into her, and then he didn't really have anything cheeky to say to her at all because she felt so good around him he had to grip her hips to keep her from moving so that it would last more than a second. "You're perfect."

"You don't even like me."

"I like you right now," he said, managing to find a grin for her, slowly pulling out from her and delighting in the way her eyelids fluttered as he pressed back in.

"I'll bet you do," she said, reaching around to grab his ass to encourage him to move, and he did, but so slowly. She arched her back against the door, clearly frustrated with his pace, and he couldn't help but feel a little smug at the desperate whine that escaped her as he continued to fuck her as slowly as he could manage. Holding her up against the door wasn't easy, though, and his legs were beginning to feel week. She clawed at his back, making another noise of frustration. " _Sweetie_ —"

He bit down on the side of her neck and began to move a bit faster, feeling her clench around him, and then faster still — she clawed at his back and his shoulders, gasping at his every thrust and reaching a hand down between them to rub her own clit. Her felt her thighs quivering around him and it only spurred him on, the sound of their skin slapping together mixing with her gasps and moans and the sound of her back hitting against the door. 

"I'm so close," she said, " _fuck_ , I need more."

He nodded frantically, pressing his face to her neck and scrambling with the hand that wasn't supporting her for the door knob — he wasn't thinking, though, all wrapped up in River, and when he turned it the door fell open and they went sprawling onto the floor beside his bed. He didn't think for a moment of getting up, instead he just reached around her leg to hitch it up over his arm, and on his next thrust pressed it up over her shoulder, hitting her so deep inside that they both cried out. He thrust into her over and over again until her cries reached fever pitch once more, her hands leaving his body to grasp at the carpet beside her as her body arched up into his. He felt her start to come undone around him, her cries turning into shouts of his name interspersed with various profanities and he had to kiss her — he pressed his lips to hers, swallowing her cries and his as she fell apart. Her muscles spasmed around him, and he continued to fuck her through her release, groaning into her mouth as she reached around him to grab at him again, pulling him so hard against her he almost worried about hurting her.

"I'm going to —"

"Not yet," River said, her nails biting into his skin, as if in reproach.

"I'm sorry, I —" _  
_

She cut him off with a kiss, wrapping an arm around his neck and throwing her weight at him, and suddenly he was on his back and she was on top of him, her hands on his chest as she ground down against his pelvis, biting her lips. She looked so flushed and desperate as she leaned toward him, using the leverage of her arms on his chest and her shaking thighs to bounce on top of him. He was so close to the edge, he didn't know how he'd make it another minute, but River was relentless, and infuriatingly perceptive of when he became too close — a couple of times she slowed down, lifting herself off of him until just the head of his cock was inside of her before she took him in again and resumed her hard, heavy pace. He reached his hands to her hips, gripping hard, and planting his feet on the ground so he could hold her still next time she withdrew and press up into her. She cried out sharply at that, closing her eyes and lifting her hands from his chest to palm her own breasts, rolling her palms over her nipples. John's mouth went dry as he watched her, and his vision started to go dark at the corners. He removed a hand from her hip to press a finger against her clit as he pushed into her, and then he was gone — he was vaguely aware of her shouting over him, her whole body shaking, but his vision went dark. He'd never given much thought to the phrase 'seeing stars' but in that moment he very nearly did.

When he was aware of his surroundings again, River was lying on top of him, breathing heavily, and he felt entirely weightless. She rolled off of him after a moment, lying on her back beside him, and letting out the most delicious sigh of satisfaction he'd ever heard in his life.

"That," she said, "was definitely one of our better ideas."

"Top five, easily," he said, "and we're both brilliant, so that's saying something."

She snorted. "I don't think I can move."

"No, me either," John said. "But the bed's right there. We could just..."

"It's so  _far_ ," she complained, rolling back into him and burying her face in his chest. He wrapped an arm around her, and that felt so  _strange_ to him, for her to be resting against him, wrapped in his arms. The sex had been phenomenal, and everything leading up to it had been world-series level perfect, but this sort of casual post-coital intimacy — it made him feel a little gun shy. He still didn't know if he and River could even get along when they weren't trying to get one another out of their pants. But then, his opinion of River had evolved so much in the past twenty-four hours, there was no reason why it wouldn't change again. Besides, he was far too tired to articulate any serious conversation. River yawned, shoving her hair clumsily out of her her face, and he sighed. 

"Alright," he said, "up you get." She groaned at him, but let him manhandle her to her feet, and then into his bed. They collapsed into it, clumsily wiggling their way beneath the blankets, and without even thinking about it he pulled her to him, her back pressed against his front. He pressed a kiss to her shoulder, nuzzling his nose against the side of her neck, and tried not to think about how no matter how many times he reminded himself that he and River didn't even get along, he couldn't resist her in some ways. She shifted, getting comfortable against him, and after a moment her hand moved to cover his where it rested over her stomach.

"I've got to write those pages," River said.

"I know," he said. "I've got to read them and yell at you about them."

He could see the smile tugging at the edge of her lips. He smiled too, closing his eyes.

"Amy and Rory will send out a search party if we don't go get my car," River said, "or the police."

John heard her, and some part of him recognized it as cause for alarm, but instead he just pulled her closer, molding his body around hers, and let himself drift off to sleep. 


	10. Chapter 10

When John woke up, he blearily peered at the clock on the dresser, and saw that they'd slept for nearly an hour. He jolted a bit, but then River yawned and resettled herself against him, curling her body up slightly and he felt something in him melt. God, he didn't  _do_ this sort of thing — he was, for all of his wacky ideas and long winding speeches about human goodness and love and whatever other tidbits Amy constantly mocked him for, a fairly reasonable person. He liked danger and causing trouble and, sure, if someone offered him the opportunity to jump out of a plane or off of a mountain or to do some other stupidly dangerous stunt, he couldn't say yes fast enough, but when it came to his personal life, he was so tentative. All of his past relationships had happened bit by bit, like slowly stepping into a pool inch by inch until he acclimated to the temperature. With River, he'd gone from having no interest in swimming whatsoever from diving in with all of his clothes on. Which wasn't to say he suddenly had deep feelings for River — they still only knew one another in glances, and he still wasn't sure that they could get along for an extended period of time — but there was definitely  _something_. Definitely more than something, judging by the stupid smile he knew to be on his face as she rolled over to face him.

She had a crease on her cheek from the pillow and there were faint red marks blooming across her chest — not dark enough to leave a serious mark, but present enough to make him smug. Her eyes were sleepy and warm, more green than blue in the low light, and she bit her lip as she trailed a finger down his nose. It was a thoughtful motion, not an affectionate one, and he could tell by the way she held her body slightly apart from his as she lay facing him that she, too, was mulling things over.

"How long were we asleep?"

"Not an hour," John said, reaching a hand out to brush a curl out of her face.

River hummed in response, her eyes searching him, but she didn't say anything. He sighed, his breath ruffling her hair, and reached out and hand to rest on her hip, stroking his thumb gently against her soft, bare skin. She bent her legs forward to tuck her cold feet up against him, and he thought about bickering with her about it, but instead he just watched her, watching him. She was beautiful, of course — he'd noticed that, even before any of this had happened. She had the sort of face one could look at forever and never get bored. She wasn't a cookie cutter sort of beauty; her body was strong and lovely, but soft and lived-in. He liked dramatic flare of her waist and the small, faint stripes on the outside of her thighs, and the way he could see the muscles flex in her legs as he glanced down to watch her drape one leg over his and sidle slightly closer to him. He liked the plane of her stomach and the slightly unruly curls between her thighs, and how small her hand looked as she reached out to press it over his heart. River was stunning, and she caught just about everybody's eye, but he thought that he liked the way all the comely and homely parts of her fit together; he rather appreciated her as a whole, imperfect. Maybe he'd even appreciate it when they were fighting.

"Penny for your thoughts?" she said at long last, her voice low and quiet.

"You, mostly," John said, "and us, I suppose, if there's even that."

River frowned, curling her fingers against his chest, and it felt a bit like her closing up on him. He reached a hand down to cover hers, and brought it up to his mouth to kiss the back of it. She didn't crinkle her nose as she had earlier, just looked at him very seriously. She almost looked wary as he kissed her hand again, her expression guarded in a way he wasn't used to seeing.

"I don't know, sweetie," she said. She paused, and then, "we were a bit preoccupied, earlier. I think what I said may've seemed a bit glib, but I meant it when I said I'm not good at this. I meant it when I said I tend to leave people worse off than I find them."

"Hurricane River," John said, "tearing down everything in her path."

"Something like that," she said. "I like being with people, and  _being_  with people, but I'm not so sure people like being with me."

"That's a terrible thing to say," John said. "What's happened to River Song, with an ego big enough to have its own zip code?"

She smiled. Her hand was still closed where he held it. "I'm not sure this is an argument you can weigh in on, honey. You can hardly stand me."

"You can hardly stand  _me_ ," John said.

"I don't think the fact that neither one of us can stand one another is really your best argument."

"Who says I'm arguing in favor of this?" John said, raising a brow at her.

"Oh, my mistake," River said, "shall I get dressed and leave? My, this is awkward."

He furrowed his brow at her, wondering how much of what she said was sincere and how much was pretend. She pouted at him prettily and made to stand, but as soon as she sat up he wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her back into him, delighting in her bark of laughter. River always seemed to confident and competent and utterly unflappable — it hadn't occurred to him before that she hid behind a larger than life persona in the same way that he did.

"Stay," he said, tugging her into him until they were lined up, nose to hip to toe, and he pressed a quick kiss to the tip of her nose. "We can argue some more about what we're doing."

"Like that, do you?"

"Second best part of my day, so far."

"What's the first?" River said, winking, and he took the opportunity to wrap his arm around her and press her into him at the small of her back, brushing his lips against hers.

"Shall I show you?"

"I don't know, honey," River said, "I've got quite a few things to attend to today, not sure if I have time..."

"I can be quick."

"Ooh, sweetie, you  _do_ know how to talk to a girl," River said, and he flushed.

"That's not what I meant!"

River laughed, and he kissed her, swallowing her giggles until she sighed against his lips and opened her mouth to him, pressing her body against him and lifting a leg over his hip. He ran a hand down her side, reaching it around her to cup her ass and then beneath her thigh, pulling her leg high on his hip so he could feel her, wet against him, as she squirmed. He shifted his weight to roll her onto her back and press her into the mattress, settling between her legs and kissing her so thoroughly that she was practically purring when he pulled away, her eyes dark and heavy-lidded as he began to kiss his way down her neck, scraping his teeth gently over the center of her throat; the gasp she made his whole body go hot and cold. He continued his way down, her hands gripping to his hair or stroking his back or curling in the sheets as he sucked on the skin of her left breast, cupping the other with one hand and running his thumb over her nipple as he teased the other with his teeth.

"Maybe," River said, "you should use this sort of argument more often. I'm feeling far more generous toward you than I usually am at this point in a fight."

"We weren't fighting," John said, kissing a path down between her ribcage, his hands spanning her hips as he paid particular attention to the spot of skin just above the small thatch of hair between her thighs, smiling against her skin as she inhaled sharply, her breath shuddering. "We were discussing."

"You and I don't know the difference."

"That's not —" he cut himself up, looking up at her to see her peering at him with one brow raised, looking haughty and superior even though her face was flushed and her chest was heaving. "I see your point."

"I think you could make yours clearer," River said, reaching a hand down to brush his hair back. "I'm not quite convinced."

"And what exactly am I trying to convince you?" John asked, sliding further down the best to kiss the inside of her right thigh, and then her left.

"To stay," River said. 

"I'd rather do that with words," John said, "a bit of conversation over tea or a pint or dinner. This seems a bit manipulative, even for me." He paused, recalling his recent re-evaluations of River's person. "Even for you."

Her face softened slightly at that, and she sighed. "I'm not sure I can handle that, sweetie. I'm not really the wine-and-dine type."

"I haven't even decided if I want to wine and dine you," John said defensively. Then, "if I did, though. What type are you?"

"Mm," River hummed as he kissed her thigh again, closer to where she wanted him. She squirmed a bit against the bed. "I'm more of the... last minute plane ticket to anywhere, traveling with nothing but the clothes on my back, fucking in dark corridors of historical monuments when the tour guides aren't looking type."

 John laughed quietly, meeting her gaze as he kissed her core briefly, just his lips, sliding his hands beneath her legs to grab her ass with his hands, pulling her down into a more comfortable position and kissing her again, running his tongue along her slick folds and lingering over her clit. Her whole body shuddered, so he did it again, this time with more pressure, flicking his tongue over her clit a few times before pulling away. She squirmed again, making a little noise of frustration.

"Do you do that sort of thing often?"

"Oh, yes," River said, "love a tomb, me."

He wrinkled his nose. " _Really_? Old historical sites? Don't they bore you?"

"I'm an archaeologist by trade, originally," River said. "You can call me Professor, if you'd like."

" _Archaeologist_ ," he spat out.

"Please," River said, "have you even  _got_ a degree?" _  
_

"I have a dozen!"

"Rubbish," River said. "Now stop trying to impress me with your qualifications and move on to the practical portion of the interview."

"Inter —"

"Oh,  _shut_ up," River said, tightening the hand that had been resting on his head around his hair and tugging him to her, and he couldn't think of compelling response, and so did as he was told. 

He buried his face between her legs as she whimpered, pressing her hips up into him and holding his head in place as he opened his mouth against her, pressing his tongue between her folds and curling it upward; he lapped at her, continuing the motion until he could  _feel_ her struggling for breath, before pulling back slightly to run his tongue up over her clit. He sealed his lips around it, rolling over it with his tongue and he whole body gave a jolt, so he did it again, and again, pressing his face into her until he couldn't breathe. He dug his fingers into her ass where he held her, and she squeezed her thighs around his head, even as he muscles began to quiver. She tasted sharp and heavy and perfect, and the sounds she made as he licked at her again, running his tongue and grazing his teeth down her slick flesh until he could press his tongue inside of her again made it even better. Her fingers were almost painful where they gripped her his, and she ground her hips enthusiastically against him, pressing them up off of the mattress. That was another thing he loved about River — she went after her pleasure unabashedly, taking what she needed and never accepting anything less. 

"Say I get us a plane ticket," he said, pulling away from her, teasing her with his breath against her slick skin. His mouth was damp with her wetness, but he didn't move to wipe it off, just licked his lips. "Where do we go?"

"To travel?"

"No, the other thing," he said, running the flat of his tongue over her in one long swipe. Her legs were tight and quivering around him, as though she were lingering right on the edge — he could tell in the slight quaver of her voice, the way her eyes couldn't quite hold his, and the way she fidgeted against the bed.

"Rome," she said, "the colosseum."

He sucked at her clit, making her whole body buck.

"We'd go on a rainy day," she said. He nodded at her to continue, and she nodded back, so he buried his face between her legs against, and removed one hand from beneath her to press a thumb to her clit as he thrust his tongue inside of her once more, licking at her inner walls. "During an off-season.  _Fuck_. As few tourist as possible. We'd wander around until we found an empty area.  _God_ ,  _sweetie_ —" _  
_

"Keep going," he said, pausing only long enough to speak. He thought archaeology was boring but River's apparent kink was anything but, and he loved the idea of traveling the world and pressing up against history so very literally. He pressed his own hips against the bed, seeking some sort of friction for the tightness coiling in his lower back, moaning against her core as she let out a high-pitched whine and tugged at his hair.

"You'd press me against the wall," she said, "push up by dress and fuck me from behind, scraping up against all that history — brush burns on our skin from the rock —" _  
_

" _River_ ," he groaned against her, moving his thumb rapidly against her clit as she gasped and cried out, locking her feet over his shoulders and holding him to her. He opened his mouth over her and thrust his tongue in and out of her, grinding his hips down against the mattress and when he moaned again, the sound buried within her, she came with a shout and a sharp breath, her whole body quivering. He removed his hand, licking her gently until she stopped shaking. He looked up at her and wiped his mouth on his hand, and she reached a hand under his chin, guiding him up over her body to kiss him. "The colosseum, _really_?"

"I considered the pantheon," River said, "but there's nowhere to  _go_. At least the colosseum has rows. Ooh, perhaps the labyrinth beneath...."

"The seventh Marquess of Bath is an eccentric sort of fellow," John said, "he's got an enormous labyrinth in the garden. Now  _that_ has possibilities."

"Certainly," River said, "and while we're in England, we could pop by the Tower of London."

"Or Stonehenge," John said.

"All good ideas," River agreed.

"You know what else would be a good idea?" John said, his hands running over her body with a bit more intent. She smirked at him, pulling him down to kiss him again as she wrapped her legs around his hips. She was soaked from his earlier ministrations as his erection slid over her, and he kissed her harder for it. She reached a hand down between them to line him up, and it barely took any movement for him to slide within her. "You feel so good."

"You're not so bad yourself, sweetie."

"See?" John said, kissing her nose. "We can get along."

"Only —"

There was a banging sound outside.

"Was that a car door?" River said.

"Amy and Rory," John said, and River's face abruptly went blank.

"Please don't say their names while you're inside of me," River said, "they're practically our parents."

"They're —"

" _Focus_ , honey," River said, shoving his shoulders lightly. "We've got to get up. Our clothes are strewn all over the house."

"We've got five minutes at least," John said, "five minutes and forty-eight seconds if we're lucky."

"John —"

"Amy'll knock first," John said, kissing River, "and then when I don't answer, she'll go for the spare key, which is in a lockbox on the side of the house. She and Rory will debate for a minute at least before coming in, and by then..."

"Sweetie..."

He pulled out and pressed back into her, and she bit her lip, so he did it again, and her legs pressed more tightly around him. "Pretend we're in the colosseum."

"You're ridiculous."

"Five minutes 'til the next patrol, River Song," John said, kissing her. This time, she kissed him back. "What are you going to do?"

She rolled her eyes at him, but he could tell by the flush of her cheeks that she was just as interested in continuing as he was. She ran her hand down his back before gripping his ass and encouraging him to move. He didn't waste any time, setting a hard and fast pace — he'd been worked up enough, just getting her off, and he wasn't about to go through another stretch of hours going mad from frustration, especially when she was right here, and so open. He thought it might bother him, later, how River was so careful and closed off when he tried to talk to her, but the moment it became physical her walls seemed to come crumbling down, but at the moment all he cared about was the way her fingers clutched at his skin, and the sounds she made against his neck, and the way she nipped at the skin of his throat when he ground down against her clit on the next stroke. Her hair kept getting into his mouth every time he opened his mouth to gasp in air, but he was so close, and they had so little time. He pressed his hands more firmly into the mattress on either side of her, picking up his speed as her cries picked up volume.

He wished they had all day to do this, to roll around in bed so that he could learn every way to make her breathing hitch and her skin prickle, to learn how to get her to make every lovely, sexy little sound she had in her. He wished he had hours and hours to learn every angle and curve of her body, to taste every inch of her skin until he could play her like an instrument, using only the good notes. But her breath was hot and heavy against his neck and her inner muscles were already beginning to contract around him and it felt  _incredible_ , and he was so close to the edge — three minutes left, give or take — and so he fucked her harder, until the slap of his skin against hers was almost louder than her cries of pleasure. She reached down between them to tug at her own clit, and then she was falling over the edge with a shriek that made his toes curl, and he followed after her. John collapsed on top of her, gasping for air, but she only let him rest for a second before she was shoving him to the side and hurrying to stand on shaky legs.

"Better get up, sweetie," River said, "unless you want Amy to walk into a free show."

John threw a pillow at her, but she was already laughing at him and leaving the room, and so after a moment he followed, feeling totally boneless and wishing he didn't have to move at all. River already had her pants pulled back on and her bra fastened and was pulling on her shirt when he reached the living room, and he hurried to step into his pants. He was nearly done buttoning his shirt when he heard Amy and Rory bicking indecipherably at the door, and the key was scraping against the lock as he tucked his shirt in and looked to River.

"Presentable?"

River shrugged. "You? Rarely."

"Oi," John said, "that's a rude thing to say to someone who's made you come four times in one day."

River rolled her eyes, stepping nearer to him to straighten his collar before wrinkling her nose. "Speaking of which, we reek of sex."

"Um," John said.

"Don't you have — I don't know — some sort of... air freshener?"

"We do not smell that badly!"

"Badly, no," River said, "like we've just spent the better part of the day having an enthusiastic and multi-parted shag, yeah. We do."

John tugged at his collar uncomfortably, peering around as he heard the key finally click into the lock, hurrying to grab a bottle of air freshener resting on the lower level of an end table. River grabbed it from him and began to spray it around the room, taking particular care to spray him all over until he was coughing and snatching it out of her hands, which was when Amy and Rory finally stumbled in. John held the air freshener, looking at them dumbly.

"We were just, um... fighting," John said, giving River a spray with the air freshener.

Rory rolled his eyes. Amy looked rather angry.

"I thought you'd killed each other!" she said. "It's been two hours!"

"Very nearly, dear," River said to Amy, snatching the air freshener back and dropping it to the couch. She narrowed her eyes at him, and usually that expression made him want to snark at her. Now, it just made the hair on his neck stand on end, in a good way — he realized that perhaps it had always done that, but he'd never really understood before. "Thankfully I don't have to get in a car with him anymore. Ignorant pillock."

"Arrogant wench," John shot back. 

"Self-centered arsehole."

"Get out of my house," he said, calmly, eyebrows raised. He wondered if it sounded like flirting to Amy and Rory, too, or if it just seemed that way to him because he knew he'd been inside of her in the past five minutes.

"Gladly," River said.

"Those pages were rubbish," John added, for good measure.

He didn't expect her to  _slap_ him, but she did, hard and fast, a good crack across his face that left him clasping it and staring at her, stunned. He glanced at Amy, who was charging over to grab River's arm and pull her out of his house — clearly displeased with her, although Amy glared at John as well — and Rory looked just as shocked as John was. Shaking himself, Rory gave John an awkward clap on the shoulder before heading out the door. Amy followed him, shouting some vague threat of  _talking later_ as she tugged River behind her. River blew him a kiss when Amy's back was to her, and he scowled.

He felt like his head was spinning, and so he went to sit down, not sure if it was just the totally bizarre twenty-four hours he'd just had, or if River had perhaps given him a concussion. 


	11. Chapter 11

River spent the better part of the next week in John's house. Sometimes, early in the morning when she got back from the run she insisted on and he woke up to find her making tea, he thought about the conversation they'd had the first time she'd come over for dinner — about how he didn't want her in his house, about how his house was a private, personal place — and felt overwhelmed by how abruptly she'd learned to navigate it. She knew which mug he preferred and where he kept his spoons and she'd even figured out how to jiggle the lever on his electric kettle just right to make it work. He shouldn't have liked that. He kind of did, a bit.

He sat down at the table, ruffling his hair — he knew it to be stick up at odd angles, it was utterly hopeless in the mornings — and sighing quietly as he watched her go through what had become a ritual. It was a ritual he appreciated very much, because not only did it end with tea, but some mornings she wore skin-tight black leggings that left exactly nothing to the imagination. And  _this_ morning she'd taken off her shirt when she'd returned and tossed it over the back of his chair and was instead making tea in her sports bra — he'd never been a sporty sort of fellow, but imagined if he had, this would've been every fantasy ever come to life. He leaned back in his chair. This was usually when he'd start heckling her about something, but instead he just watched her pour the milk into hers and spoon the sugar into his, watching the light from the window over the sink make her curls golden and her skin gleam with drying sweat. God, he didn't really know what to make of River most of the time, but it could never be said that she wasn't much to look at. Focusing on her also made his thoughts not so very loud — in thinking about her running habit, he'd realized that she hadn't come with a bag the previous night, which meant that somewhere in his drawers, River had stored her clothing. The thought simultaneously made him want to immediately ask her to leave and never come back and pull her to him and never let her go.

She was closed off and arrogant and totally unwilling to even broach any conversation that remotely sounded like commitment, and while it was a balm to him in many ways, he also liked to call things what they were. He and River didn't get along much better when discussing work than they had before sleeping together, but in the day-to-day, she was incredible company — and now she, apparently, had acquired a drawer. And in the past seven days had spent six nights and the better part of the following mornings and sometimes into the early evening in his house. He wanted to run, like he always did, but something about River felt inevitable to him. He realized now that it was probably why he'd reacted so poorly to her; he never did like the thought of destiny.

But then, if someone had told him destiny looked like River Song, he might not have been quite so quick to judge.

He was snapped from his thoughts by River setting his tea down in front of him, the ceramic clattering against the wood and making him jump a bit. She laughed at him, low and warm, settling into the seat across from him. Sipping her tea, she prodding his foot with hers.

"Something wrong?"

"You didn't have a bag last night," he said.

"Sorry?"

"Last night, when you came in," John said. "You didn't have a bag. Where'd you get the workout clothes?"

"I'd left them here the night before," River said, shrugging, but he could tell by the way her eyes fall away from his that she was uncomfortable with the thought as well. "I wasn't about to borrow your shorts."

He snorted. "Yours are better anyway."

"Would you like to try them on?" she asked, raising a brow.

" _No_ ," he said, flushing, "I meant on  _you_."

She grinned at him, prodding his foot with hers again, and he reached out to wrap a hand around the seat of her chair between her legs, pulling her toward him until their knees collided. He leaned forward to kiss her, swallowing her laughter.

"I don't mind," John said, when he pulled away, reaching up to tuck a curl behind her ear. "If you leave things here."

"You just like the leggings," River said.

He shrugged, smirking at her. She ran a hand through his hair, and the fondness in her expression made his heart seize in his chest. He wanted to open himself up to her — he wanted to let himself know her and be known and let her have an entire dresser and give her a garden in his backyard and have a mug in his cabinet that he thought of as hers, but while part of him was terrified of that prospect, he  _knew_ that  _all_ of River was terrified of it. He'd thought he was a veritable mess of tawdry quirks and defense mechanisms cooked up over years of being tossed around and neglected, but River was just as bad with twice the temper, and what was worse (or better) was that she was so clever in changing the subject, that he hardly noticed it until after.

"Definitely keep the leggings here," he said, trying to refocus, "but if you wanted to leave some other clothes as well — even ugly ones — I wouldn't stop you."

Her expression made him think of how she'd closed her fist against his chest, that first day, when he'd tried to get her to open up. It made him feel almost desperate, the way she locked him out. He'd never had anyone  _do_ that to him before, and certainly not someone who he —  _well_. Whom he rather liked.

"Let's get dinner," John said, instead of continuing the conversation. She blinked at him.

"We get takeout almost every night, sweetie."

"I mean let's go out and get dinner," he said. "There's a nice little —"

"John, no," River said, pulling away from him so abruptly, it almost felt like being slapped again. She stood from her chair, reaching for the shirt on the back of it and throwing it over her head, as though she couldn't cover herself soon enough. 

"Why not?"

"I just don't think it's a good idea."

"We get takeout every night," John said, "you keep your clothes in my drawer, we've been shagging like rabbits, but you won't eat out with me?"

She put her hands on her hips, looking at him with her eyes narrowed. "I think it'll send you the wrong message."

"What message?"

"I don't know," River said, rolling her eyes. She shrugged. "That I'm interested."

"Dear," John said, "I don't know if you've realized this, but you've spent the night almost every day this week. If you're concerned about mixed signals, dinner shouldn't be where you start."

"I'm obviously  _interested_ , you idiot," she said, "I just mean... I'm not a relationship sort of person. I thought we'd discussed this."

"I'm not asking you to  _marry_ me," he said, setting down his tea and walking toward her. "I haven't got a clue what we're doing. But we've been locking ourselves away in here for a week, and I figured it might be nice to get out. See the world a bit. You and me, Song, what do you say?"

She smiled slightly, and he stepped nearer to her, cupping her face in his hands.

"The world, hm?"

"Well," he said, "really it's just this great place on Sunset, but it's  _in_ the world."

She laughed, and he grinned, dropping his hands to her hips and backing her into the kitchen counter. She bit her lip as she looked up at him, and he wondered wildly how they'd gotten here — he'd wanted to wring her neck not a week ago, but that one moment of standing a bit too close and lingering a bit too long had changed everything; it was a bit like gravity, he thought. Stay far enough away and he'd hardly noticed it, but step too close and there was nothing he could do but fall closer. So he did, sliding one hand down over her hip and around her front to press his fingers between her legs. 

"Come to dinner with me," he said, pressing a kiss to her jaw. Her breathing hitched as he continued to run his fingers over her with more pressure. The fabric of her leggings was smooth and damp. He used his other hand to bunch up her shirt, still rubbing his fingers between her legs, slowly and methodically, and she helped him shuck it off until she was in just her sports bra again.

"This is unfair," River said, spreading her legs to give him better access. He pulled back to look at her with a slight smile, trailing a finger over her collarbone. "You're manipulating me."

"I'm not doing a very good job if you're aware of it," John said. "Does it count as manipulation if I tell you I'm manipulating you?"

"I..." River said, trailing off as he bent down slightly to lick along her collar bones, following the path his finger had. "I honestly don't know."

"Fancy that," John said, sucking at the skin at the top of her breast. "River Song, not knowing something."

"If you tell anyone," River said, "I'll deny it."

He laughed, sliding his fingers between her legs and curling his fingers up, pushing them as far into her as he could with the leggings in the way. She gasped as he pressed his thumb the her clit, pressing his fingers harder up into her and licking and biting along the top edge of her sports bra.

"Dinner?" he asked, pulling his hand back slightly. "Think of it as a bribe, not manipulation."

She whined. "John..."

"Dinner," he repeated.

"On two conditions," River said. 

"Yes?"

She placed a hand beneath his chin and made him look at her. "We have dinner. Food, wine, dessert.  _Dessert_."

He grinned. "Yes..."

"You don't take it for more than it is," she said. He started to respond, but she shook her head. "I'm serious, John."

"I promise not to propose marriage after one meal," John said, "what's the second?"

"You stop  _teasing_ me and give me a proper bribe," she said.

"Deal," he said, kissing her.

She opened her mouth on a gasp, her tongue sliding slickly against his, and she slid her hands beneath his shirt, raking her nails along the skin of his stomach. He shivered, pulling back from her long enough for her to help him get it off, and then he kissed her again — first the corner of her mouth, then along her throat, nipping gently at her skin along the edge of her sports bra, reaching his hands up to grasp her breasts, squeezing them gently, and then a bit more firmly. She threw her head back and moaned, so he did it again as he bent slightly to kiss her sternum, running his tongue along her stomach; her skin was sticky and salty with sweat from her workout, tart on his tongue as he kissed his way down to her belly button, running his tongue around the outside, his hands sliding down her hips. She reached down, but before she could tug him up, he gripped her hips more firmly and he pulled back to spin her around. She gasped in surprise, stumbling slightly against the sink, but quickly found her footing and moaned as he nipped at the small of her back, sliding his hands down the elastic waistband of her leggings.

"I said  _stop_ teasing," she said.

He smiled, then leaned forward to tug at the fabric that covered her ass with his teeth, pinching her skin slightly — she didn't jump, though, just moaned low in her throat, and he pulled her leggings the rest of the way down her legs, helping her to step out of him before he stood up and pressed himself against her, burying his face in her hair.

"You had your conditions," he said, "I have mine."

"You don't get conditions when we're negotiating for what  _you_ want."

"You're not in a position to haggle at the moment, are you?" John said, keeping her pressed against the counter with his body as he slid his own pants off and stepped out of them. He returned his hands to her body, running them up her stomach, his fingers pushing up under the elastic at the base of her sports bra as he pushed it up, letting her wriggle out of it and throw it behind them as he gripped her breasts again, pressing his erection firmly against her.

" _Please_ ," River said, "I could make you beg, even now, if I wanted to."

"Really?" he said, pinching her nipples and pressing her more tightly against the counter. She leaned up on her tip toes, and when he bent his knees slightly his erection rubbed up against her wet folds, and he shuddered right along with her. "Because it seems a little bit like you're at my mercy."

"Scary thought," she said.

He brushed her hair to the side and gently bit the nape of her neck in reproach. "Everything's a scary thought with you."

"How flattering," River said.

He sighed against her skin, kissing the slight red mark where his teeth had pressed a moment ago, and bending her further over the sink. When she pressed back into him he lined himself up and pressed into her, and she gasped. "It was actually a bit of a compliment."

"How so?"

"I'm not scared of anything," John said, setting a slow pace with deep strokes. She pressed her hands flat against the counter, her arms trembling slightly as she bent further over. "So you must be quite something, River Song."

" _Harder_ ," she said, preceding a hitching moan. Then, "you only say things like that to me when you know I can't stop you."

"Would you?"

He followed her orders, moving faster, the sound of their skin slapping together filling the room in a deliciously obscene way. He gripped her hips, kissing her shoulders, running his tongue along the ridges of her spine, scraping his teeth against her skin as her cries grew sharper, until she could feel her body trembling beneath him. Her feet scrambled against the floor as she pitched herself forward, trying to get him to hit — _ah_ , right there, he knew, as she tightened around him, her cries becoming more desperate.

"Would I — _guh_ — what?"

"Stop me," he said, "from saying — saying things like that."

"No," she said, "but I'd want to —  _sweetie_ ,  _yes!"_ She came with a toe-curling shout, her head dropping as she painted, and he pressed his lips to her skin, holding her more tightly as he thrust into her a few more times before he found his release and collapsed over her, his hands pressing into the counter on either side of her. "God, honey, I don't know about dinner, but we can do that whenever you'd like."

"Wherever and whenever you want," he said, slowly extricating himself from her and immediately finding the chair he'd been sitting in earlier and collapsing back into it, careless with his limbs. She stayed leaning against the counter for a moment more, and he admired the view as his breathing returned to normal. When she finally stood and turned to face him, she stumbled toward him on unsteady legs and dropped carefully into his lap, pressing a quick kiss to his lips.

"I'm not the relationship type," she said, "but I do want to have dinner with you."

"Really?" he said. "You're not just saying that because I'm a fantastic shag?"

She laughed. "I think you're a moderately good shag.  _I'm_ fantastic. I bring our average up."

"Oi, where's your proof?"

"Would you like some references?"

John flushed. "You're ridiculous."

" _You're_ ridiculous."

"Well suited, then," he said, kissing her nose. 

Her expression was soft, just for a minute.

"Maybe," she said, "now come on, let's get cleaned up so I can go home and get ready for this dinner."

 

 


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not even going to talk about how long it's been. Don't trust me, guys. Anyway, I wrote this chapter shortly after I wrote the last one but indecision as far as where to go from there stopped me from publishing it. So many thanks to the fabulous Sarah/Goddessdel for talking me through some options and holding my hand because I'm a tiny, tiny baby.
> 
> Also, Pie 'n' Burger is a real restaurant and it's delicious and disgusting and you should eat there if you're ever near Pasadena, I'm just saying.

John opened his front door, twirling his keys on one finger and trying to tamp down on the enthusiasm he felt at the prospect of going to pick River up for dinner — in part so he didn't scare her off, and in part because he was making himself uneasy — only to find River already standing on the other side. He gaped at her, looking behind him at the clock on the wall before turning back to her.

"What sort of time do you call this?" he asked, frowning.

"Dinner time?" River said, raising a brow. 

"I thought I was going to pick you up," John said, pouting only a little bit. Maybe a lot. Judging by the way River sighed, he assumed it was the latter. 

"We perhaps should have discussed," River said.

"Probably," John agreed, stepping onto the front step to join her and locking his door behind him. "But then, I was trying to keep the conversation surrounding this dinner to a minimum, since you weren't exactly keen on the whole date thing."

"It's not a date," River said quickly.

John dropped the keys into his suit jacket pocket and looked at her, trying to read her expression. She jutted her chin in the air slightly, as though challenging him. He didn't know what he wanted, but then, he seldom had any idea what he wanted on any front. He certainly wasn't one for relationships, since they tended to lead to nothing but disaster, and it seemed especially unlikely given their mutually agreed upon tendency to leave people worse off than they found them. Still, this didn't feel bad — this felt good. Spending time with River was some of the most fun he'd had in years. She even got along with the Ponds — she'd settled into their little makeshift family seamlessly. There was, of course, the ever-present problem that they'd existed in something of a bubble since they'd first slept together. They'd spent so much time alone that he definitely worried that the illusion would shatter the moment they had to interact with the real world; it wasn't for nothing that they were constantly at one another's throat up until very recently. But then, what relationship didn't have concerns? Nothing was perfect, but looking at River, he thought she was very nearly, so he stepped closer to her, backing her into the railing.

"What are you doing?" she said.

"Let's make a deal," he said. "Dinner is a date."

"I just said it wasn't. And that's not a deal, honey, that's just a statement."

"Dinner is a date," he continued, "if it goes well. If you have a good time, if we manage to keep from killing one another in a public setting, I get to call it a date."

"You can call it a quinciñera if you want, honey, it doesn't make it so."

" _River_ ," he said, "I'm trying to negotiate here, would you give me a  _little_ bit?"

"I don't see why we have to negotiate at all," River said. "I could just go home."

"Is that what you want?" he asked. He placed his hands on either side of her on the railing, pressing in close to her personal space but not touching her, so that she had to look at him. She sighed gently.

"No."

"Great," he said, grinning, "brilliant. Can we agree to those terms? Dinner goes well, it's a date. Goes badly, you can slap me again."

"Tempting," River admitted.

"Then give in," he said.

"A date isn't a relationship," River said.

"I know that."

"Fine," River said, "we can call it a date if it goes well."

John grinned, swooping down to press a kiss to her lips, as she laughed at him, rolling her eyes. She acted nonchalant, but he could see how tense she was, and the way her smile didn't quite reach her eyes. 

"River," he said, stepping back from her and looking away. "We don't have to — I didn't mean to pressure you —"

"No," River said, stepping back toward him, and reaching down to grab his hand, lacing her fingers through his. "I mean yes, you did pressure me, and yes, this sort of thing makes my skin crawl but I — I want to. With you. I want to try."

"Are you sure?"

"If you want to make this date happen," River said, "best stop questioning me. Too much time to reconsider."

"Right," he said, bringing their entangled hands up to his lips to place a kiss on the back of hers. She tried not to smile, but her eyes still crinkled at the corners. "Right — prepare to be amazed, River Song."

She rolled her eyes, but there was definitely little bit of fondness to her exasperation as he turned around to tug her to his car, and it felt a little bit like victory.

 

 

He'd originally planned on taking her to a nice meal at a fancy restaurant — and he was sure she'd been expecting that, based on the little dress she'd worn and his own suit — but at the last minute he changed his mind, and instead veered away from Hollywood and onto the freeway. She questioned him endlessly as he hopped on the 101 and kept going north, but he refused to give anything away. Eventually, he pulled up to the small strip of development, commenting on how lovely the mountains were as he grabbed her hand and dragged her into the little hole-in-the-wall, hoping she'd be too distracted glancing at them to realize where he was taking her. Of course, the moment they sat down at the counter, a rousing game of  _Jeopardy_ playing on the television screen and two menus labelled "Pie'n'Burger" placed in front of them, she raised her brows so high he laughed out loud.

"Listen," he said, "I was going to take you to this lovely cafe in Hollywood. Wine, tiny plates, desserts you can't pronounce, a waiter named Luc, white table cloths — the whole thing. But I thought it might be better to be somewhere where we can, you know, talk."

She looked at him for a moment, and he held his breath until he face broke out into a soft smile. "I think this is better anyway."

"Besides, I didn't want to make it too easy for myself," he said. "That other restaurant is dating gold — you wouldn't've stood a chance."

River laughed. "You underestimate me, sweetie. My favor isn't so easily won."

"Not true," John said, "I got you to agree to dinner  _very_ easily, just had to —"

" _John_!" she shouted, swatting his leg beneath the counter with her hand.

"I wasn't going to say it!" John said, feeling his entire face flush. "Honestly, who do you think I am?  _You_?"

"Touché, sweetie," River said. "Now what does one get at Pie'n'Burger, hm?"

"Only the finest of American delicacies," John said, "for my lady." He did a little bow where he sat, grinning at her as she smirked. _  
_

"Sod off," she said, rolling her eyes away from him to look at her menu, though she was still smiling a bit. "Share an order of chips?"

"Definitely," John said, "we can start eating the same fry at opposite ends and —"

River's laughter cut him off, and when she knocked her shoulder into his, he couldn't help reaching his arm around her to tug her to him, placing a smacking kiss on her temple as she shoved him away.

"I was more thinking we've got to save room for pie," she said, "that pecan looks to die for."

"It is," John said, and then, "does that mean you think we'll make it to dessert, then?"

"Oh, I don't know," River said, "perhaps. But only for the sake of the pie."

"Of course," John said. She turned to face him, and he could see her struggle in her eyes and the way she held herself, but there was a warmth to her expression as he reached out to tuck a curl behind her ear that he couldn't ignore. And besides, they'd been out together for nearly a half hour, and hadn't yet fought once. "For the pie."

"Honey?" she said, and he realized he'd been staring at her. 

"Yes, dear?"

"The waitress is waiting to take our order."

He nearly flailed out of his chair trying to turn himself around quickly, blushing to his ears as the totally unimpressed teenage waitress cracked her gum between her teeth. River placed a hand on his knee beneath the counter, though, and so he didn't even really mind making an idiot out of himself at all.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, so there's a bit of self-indulgent self-insert in here, but I feel the need to make an additional disclaimer: hate/love tropes are tons of fun but they're also something we culturally uphold as part of healthy relationships. If someone is mean to you, makes you feel small, picks on you, or in any other way 'pulls your pigtails', they're not a good person, you're not in a romcom, they're just an asshole. Societally we let people, especially dudes, slide by on 'boys will be boys' and 'it's just because he likes you', and that's not okay. Boys who do this are immature fucknuggets you need to stay away from. Don't let anyone make you feel like meanness is the status quo.
> 
> TL;DR don't date or fuck anybody unless they treat you with dignity and respect at all times, even if the movies/books/fanfictions tell you otherwise.


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